Alone Together
by Cassiopeia'sFreckles
Summary: 'But,' the question hovers between them. But Link's a hero. He's strength and skill and hope neatly packaged in well-worn boots. Send him along with the army and part of the war is already won. And, as much as neither one of them wants to admit it, they both still remember how to fight. How to handle a blade. How to kill a man. Sheik sighs, 'but she needs us.'
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so, firstly and most importantly, thank you. Thank you for clicking on this. Thank you for considering reading this. Thank you for being an all round swell human being. Thank you if you've never read anything of mine before. Thank you if you have. A colossal thank you if you've reviewed or favourited or what-have-you-ed. Secondly, I hope you enjoy this, I really do.  
Freckles

* * *

Waking up is a blessing to him now. Now that he gets to wake up warm and safe and wrapped around someone else. No matter how they start the night, by the time that the sun light is coiling around the curtains they've turned into some multi-limbed mess. He loves it. He loves trying to extract himself from all the arms and legs that aren't his without waking the other. He loves that he never manages it.

He's almost free, so close to being able to pad out of the room to go downstairs and make tea. He hears a gentle groan from beneath him. He stops, hovering, as still as he can be, above what is honestly the most beautiful face he's ever seen. Pale eyebrows draw together. A tanned nose scrunches. Eyelashes flutter. And, just like every morning for the past six years, he finds himself looking down into eyes that really had no business being so clear, and so wide and so stunningly red.

`Fuuuuuuuck yoooooooou'

and, of course, there it is, the only words he ever wants to hear first thing in the morning.

`Good morning oh light of my life, my world and all my shining stars.'

He can't help grinning. He just can't. It's happened so many times and it never gets old. Sheik makes a disgusted noise at him before tugging a pillow over his face and out from under Link's hand. His morning extraction routine had left Link twisted awkwardly, holding himself over his partner. The sudden loss of stable pillow under his hand wasn't something he could correct for. His other arm buckles and he ends up face to pillow to face with Sheik.

Muffled irate noises make their way through the cotton and eiderdown. Everything flips. The pillow falls by the wayside and he gets an unobstructed view of Sheik straddling him and shaking his fists at the ceiling.

`Why? Why do you do this to me?'

Link slides his hands up the thighs either side of his body. He slides his eyes up the excellent expanses of skin on display above him. They look at each other. They're both desperately trying to look serious. Bitten lips quiver trying to hold laughs in. Sheik snorts first and that's it, they're both gone.

'I'm sorry kitten.' Link's words squeeze out breathlessly between fits of laughter.

Sheik reaches down and threads his fingers into Link's hair. It's all haloed out around him on the bed, bright yellow gold against the white sheets. Sheik was quietly very pleased when Link grew it out. If anyone asks he says he likes the way Link looks when he does different things with it. Which is true, he does. He loves it loose, like it is now, or twisted into a messy bun. He likes it just as much when Link's concentrating on something and has to pin the bangs out of his face. What he doesn't say is that he loves that he can run his hands through it. That he can twist it between his fingers or grab handfuls of it. He doesn't even admit to himself how much he enjoys touching it. Link knows though and now that, more than anything, is why he keeps it long.

Link turns his face towards the hand gently carding through his hair, pressing kisses to its palm. He still has his hands resting on firm thighs, thumbs rubbing circles on the skin. Sheik's hand comes to rest on his chin,

`You are so beautiful.' He leans down and tilts Link's chin just enough to put their lips almost together.

`Not compared to you kitten.'

They've kissed before, plenty of times, and will kiss again plenty more and even though the butterflies and palpitations and sweaty palms are gone now it doesn't make it any less perfect. Now they fit together with practiced ease. A well-rehearsed symphony of lips and tongue and just a flash of teeth when one knows it'll make the other moan. As exciting as new love is there is something to be said for love that has grown into itself.

Link runs his hands across Sheik's back settling one on his shoulder and the other at his waist. He's never found anything that grounds him, comforts him, more than being able to feel Sheik under his fingers. He'd ached for it. Wanted after it, for such a long time and the thought of being able to do so had kept him sane when everything was conspiring to fall apart. So, now he can do it so casually, it's the perfect reminder that all of that is behind them. He pulls Sheik closer to him, cradling him against his chest before flipping them over again. He turns the attention of his kisses to Sheiks jaw line and neck, searching for collar bones to leave marks on.

`Now then sweetness,' he traces fingers across sensitive skin, deliberately touching places that elicit a reaction, `how about I wake you up properly?'

`Oh Goddesses yes'

`Excellent, I'll go put the kettle on.'

An unholy cacophony of curse words and feral noise escape Sheik. Link bounces from the room dodging soft furnishings and stray clothes as he leaves. Only after exhausting his vocabulary of profanity Sheik yells down to him,

`I want pancakes you fucking tease'

He's honestly not particularly mad mostly because he knows he's done the exact same thing to Link, more than once, and if he really wanted he could go downstairs and get Link to fuck him ragged on the kitchen table. They've done it before and it's really very good. This morning however, he just lies there for a bit longer before sliding off the bed and dragging on the barest minimum of clothes. It's hardly cold this time of year. It's likely that, by midday, the sun will have baked the dunes around their house into white hot hillocks and they'll have all the windows and doors thrown open hoping to catch the slightest sea breeze.

The stairs creak as he walks down them. You have to skip the eighth, eleventh and twelfth treads if you don't want to make a noise. He watches the aftermath of another night mostly spent not sleeping slide into view. It's nothing terrible, just a mug, a few pencils, a lump of charcoal and paper but it's enough for Link to have guessed that Sheik hasn't really slept again. On a good night, he can get a solid six hours, and that happens more often than it doesn't now, but sometimes it's still a struggle.

Link is stood in what counts as their kitchen. The ground floor of the cottage is just one big room sectioned off in a mostly thought out way by furniture. The kettle is already on the stove, the first wisps of steam spewing from the spout. The pancakes are about half way to being a reality. A gentle snow of flour graces the worktop. Link is not a tidy cook and it used to drive Sheik insane. Now it just mildly irritates him but it's okay because he knows Link tries to make less mess, he just doesn't always manage it. He's glad they learned that the other one isn't perfect, and that they don't need to be perfect themselves either.

He wraps his arms around Link from behind, taking the chance to press himself against Link's warm, broad back before the weather makes them too sticky to bear it. He watches breakfast slowly take shape over Link's shoulder. They disentangle when it's time to eat but their hands and knees and elbows keep brushing together. They don't need the constant reassurance the other is there anymore but they like it nonetheless. It's a quiet breakfast and when Sheik stands to clear the plates away Link presses a kiss to his temple before heading upstairs again to get dressed.

Suitably clothed for the day Link pulls on his heavy work boots and stumps outside. There's a garden around their cottage, a few flower beds and a vegetable patch that Sheik does a better job of keeping alive than Link. Around the edges the grass and soil of the garden give way to sand and scrub. Link's shed lies outside the lines drawn by the salt crusted fence they put up years ago. It's not always been his. When they first came here the cottage and the shed belonged to a Sheikah widower who Link will swear blind was eighty-five percent beard. Sheik maintains he was no beardier than the average aging craftsman. The old man initially let them stay as a favour between kinsmen to Sheik and somehow, they just never left.

Link hauls the doors to the shed open. There's a mostly finished boat taking up the length of the space. They live on the periphery of a fishing town and everyone there had assumed that, when the old man died, the fisherfolk would be left without anyone to repair the boats. Link had never intended to become a boat builder but his curiosity about what the old man did turned into a love for the craft deep enough to spend years learning it. He mends gunwales and booms and rudders alone now.

He's Goddess damn sweaty before too long, even with the doors wide open. He had to strip out of his shirt a while ago. At this rate, he's not going to be able to keep working during the height of the afternoon. Hopefully Sheik is staying at least a little cooler in the house. Even better, although unlikely, Sheik would be catching up on the sleep he missed last night. Link lays his tools down for a moment in favour of getting a drink and splashing some water on his face. Neither one of them walked away from what happened quite the same as they were before it started. He's just glad that time has made things more bearable for them both. Still, he doesn't want to think about what might have happened if he'd had to deal with this alone.

He sets himself to mending a couple of sails someone brought to him a few days ago. He's been putting it off for a while but now he'd much rather do stitching than sweat over woodwork anymore. He should probably head back to the cottage and find some food but he can see heat haze over the sand and it doesn't make heading outside very appealing. He's partway through mustering up the gumption to make a break for the house when a very welcome face appears around the door. Sheik walks into the shed, stepping over saw dust and tools that haven't quite made it back to where they should be. He's got an armful of what Link really hopes is lunch.

They settle on top of a pile of planks at the back of the shed and it turns out that Sheik has indeed brought food with him. He tears a chunk of bread in two and hands Link some cheese as well.

`How your morning been?'

Link makes a noncommittal squelchy noise, 'sweaty. I started mending those sails.'

`That bad huh?'

Link just nods this time and pushes the hair sticking to his forehead out of the way. He rifles through the fruit Sheik brought with him and ends up choosing an orange. `How about yours?'

Sheik's shoulders slump, `Just don't even. . . ' he huffs out a breath, `my reference sketches just aren't. . . they're just not good enough but it's a day there and back and. . .' another sigh, `I just can't do it.'

Link slides an arm around Sheik's shoulders. A couples of weeks ago they made the trek from the coast to Zora's domain so that Sheik could make some studies for a commission. He'd been so shy when Link had found his sketchbook on one of the nights they spent together back when. . . back when. . . they were younger. Sheik had no need to be shy. What Link found in it were beautifully careful pencil and charcoal renditions of people and places around Hyrule. He flicked passed Kakariko Village, Impa, what had to have been somewhere in the castle itself and Zelda. He saw himself, once, twice, more and more as the pages went by. They were both scarlet by the time he reached the end.

Now, between the boats and the commissions that arrive from time to time they live well enough to be happy. They had been offered more after it had all ended but everyone knew it wasn't what they wanted. They stayed until things had been rebuilt and the unpleasant dregs had been mopped up. They moved from place to place for a while before they ended up by the sea. Now neither of them can think of anywhere they'd rather have come to a stop.

Sheik brushes some crumbs off his knees. He gathers the remains of lunch together before pulling some paper out of his pocket.

`Her Majesty's infallible postal service brought this earlier. I'm pretty sure it's for you.'

Link takes the letter and frowns at it. It's not unusual for Zelda to write to them but she always addresses it to both of them. He turns it over and finds his answer. The dab of wax holding the fold of the envelope down doesn't have Zelda's usual personal crest. This one, well, this one has the crest of Hyrule. It's not Zelda writing to them this time, it's Her Majesty the Lady Zelda, Queen of Hyrule and all its territories and dependencies, Bearer of Light and Keeper of Wisdom. He hesitates a little before opening it, there is every chance he isn't going to like what's inside.

Sheik is polite enough and patient enough not to read over Link's shoulder. He does try to work out what's been written by staring at Link's face though. Nothing seems immediately wrong as far as he can tell.

`So, to what do we owe the pleasure of her madge's correspondence?'

Link sighs and rubs his eyes, `I don't know exactly, but we've been summoned'

* * *

Hello again! Right, so, I've got five chapters of this done and ready(ish) to go and the plan is to upload a new one every couple of weeks. Hopefully I'll manage to be consistent and get stuff out on time but I am woefully variable in how long it takes me to write things. Sometimes I can get a chapter done in a day (HUZZAH!), sometimes it takes a week and a half (BOO!). . . I'm hoping my buffer will mean that regardless of how well I'm doing or not you guys won't be kept waiting for new content. Please bear with me if you can, I promise I will do everything I can to make it worth it.  
Cheers,  
Freckles


	2. Chapter 2

First update successfully on time! So far I'm still managing to keep writing at a reasonable rate so everything should go smoothly for the foreseeable future. Anyways, I hope you enjoy chapter 2.  
Freckles

* * *

They've been riding for two days already. It's not been particularly uncomfortable and they planned the route so they can stop in a village or at a coaching inn each night. They've definitely had it much worse. It's been kinda of nice really, since it's been a while since they last had the chance to go on a long trip with the horses. Link had been surprised when he'd first been introduced to Sheik's horse Sterren before admitting, red faced, that he'd assumed that Sheik had used some kind of Sheikah magic to move across the width and breadth of Hyrule. Now Sheik just has to live with the fact that both horses like Link more than him. This isn't a surprise with Epona but he thought Sterren would have little more loyalty.

Link loves it whenever they get to chance to ride somewhere together. He's less keen on travelling alone, and says they've done more than enough of that already. Neither one of them wants to have to slog through any more downpours alone and desperately looking for somewhere get out of the rain. They can indulge their competitive sides this way as well. Because, even if Link is the one with an uncanny way with horses, Sheik is just as competent a rider.

They're going what most people would consider too fast. Though, given that all Link can see is the blue roan back end of Sterren, he's very sure he isn't going fast enough. It's just plain unfair that Sheik got ahead of him. He quite deliberately called the race out of the blue so he'd get a head start and win. It wasn't particularly sporting of him but you can't just press your freezing feet against a man's back in the middle of the night and not expect some kind of retribution.

Sheik turns to look over his shoulder. Link isn't that far behind him, there's about another half a horse length between them. He can't spare more than a glance. Painful memories, both physically and embarrassingly, of a previous race through woodland taught him that he really doesn't have eyes in the back of his head and that he definitely isn't impervious to branches. He wants to urge Sterren on, to go faster and keep his lead but he's wary of pushing too hard. They've managed to get through so much that a bad fall and an injury now would be unbearable.

The gully they're galloping down curves gracefully away ahead of them. Sheik corners wide around the next bend and Link and Epona edge in front. Link takes his chance and pulls ahead. He laughs as he hears `you arsewipe' drift up from behind him. He can win this now, but only if he doesn't give Sheik any leeway to wiggle back in front of him. The straights are no problem but it's stopping Sheik doing exactly what Link did at the corners that's tricky. He keeps as close to the banks as he dares to.

The bridge that got declared the finish line comes into view and Link risks an over the shoulder glance. He can do this. He can't help himself from letting out a victory whoop as he and Epona thunder underneath the wooden slats. He reigns Epona in and Sheik arrives only seconds later, cursing half-heartedly at him. Link jumps down from his saddle and waits to catch Sheik as he slides off of Sterren's. Everyone's out of breath and there are patches of foamy sweat on both horses. Sheik lets himself be wrapped in Link's arms. He's pouting but mostly because he's got an excuse to.

`I'm sorry kitten,' Link rests his forehead on Sheik's shoulder and nuzzles into his neck, ` but you have won the last four times' the last bit comes out tinged with tight-lipped exasperation.

`Goddesses forbid, how could I?' Sheik pokes Links ribs, digging his fingertips in and tickling

`I know, you-' he's doing his best not to succumb to the tickling, `you've let yourself down, you've let me down, you've let Sterren down.'

Sheik's trying to keep a straight face `I know, I'm just a liability aren't I?'

Link says `yes,' just as Sheik jabs his fingers into Link's ribs so the words gets distorted by shrill surprised.

They grin at each other. Sheik pushes some hair out of Link's eyes, `Come on old man, now's as good a time as any for some food.'

`I'm twenty-five.' Link's voice ascends into incredulity, `you're older than me.'

Sheik just wiggles his eyebrows and carries on digging some food out of the saddle bags. Thoroughly dissatisfied with that response Link flaps his arms in disapproval before joining in to look for something to eat. Eventually they find what they were looking for and all manage to scramble up a shallow bit of the bank before settling down to eat.

`I think we can make it to Kakariko by tonight,' Link held the rest of his apple out for Epona, `Will Impa be there?'

Sheik shrugged, `Probably not, she's normally at the northern garrison this time of year. She won't care if we let ourselves in though.'

`I figured as much. Still, it might have been nice to find out what's going on before we get to the castle.'

They both sigh. They've told themselves and each other plenty of times that Zelda probably just needs them for something comfortingly dull and diplomatic. Being able to wheel out a `legendary hero' can go a long way in impressing foreign dignitaries. Still, neither of them can shake the fear that maybe, just maybe, it's more than that. She wouldn't. . .wouldn't ask that of them again, would she? None of them are those people any more, and none of them miss being those people. Especially not when all the things from back then try and creep back in around the edges of dreams and absent thoughts. No, she wouldn't ask that of them. Just like they wouldn't ask it of her.

It's dark when they get to Kakariko. They're greeted by the diffuse glow of light through curtained windows and Anju waving to them as she shuts her cuccos away for the night. They stable the horses before getting the spare key to Impa's house out from its hiding place. Impa isn't home as they expected so the first thing they do is light the lamps and start a fire. The second thing they do is get some water boiling for tea. After this long a day a cup of tea is less of a nicety and more of a necessity.

Link sheds his travelling gear, folding it into a neat pile. Sheik is less careful and just sort of leaves his in a mostly organized heap. The kettle starts to scream and Link goes to see to it while Sheik gathers every blanket he can find and throws them on the sofa. They curl up around one another, mugs in hand. Link lets his head loll onto Sheik's shoulder. He's warm and comfy and sitting on something that isn't a saddle. His eyelids start to slide closed.

Sheik lifts the half-full mug out of Link's sleep slackened grip and puts it out of harm's way. He'd figured this might happen and picked up the book he'd brought for the trip. It wasn't that he isn't tired, he always is, it's just that sleep doesn't always come easy for him. It's okay, he's used to it by now, so he just settles in for the wait. At least he has plenty of chances to read now, and paint. It's so much better being able to spend the time wishing he was asleep doing something he enjoyed, rather than worrying until he vomited. He will never stop being thankful that life is kinder to them now.

He's a few chapters in when he feels Link start to fidget. He sets the book down and runs his hands through Links hair, trying to quiet the motions down. He watches Link's eyebrows draw together and his nose scrunch.

`Shhhh love, it's alright.' Sheik keeps gently petting Link's hair, hoping the repetitive motions will soothe him.

It's not working. The fidgets are slowly turning into bigger, desperate fails where Link is trying to fight the blankets in his sleep. This isn't good. He's starting to whine, awful, scared little mewls slipping between quivering lips.

`It's alright my dove, it's okay' Sheik moves the blankets, freeing Link's arms as best he can.

The trashing is threatening to knock them both off the sofa and there isn't much Sheik can do to stop it. He just cushions the fall as best he can. The whines are getting louder, spilling over into incoherent yells. Sheik gives up trying to get Link to slide back into peaceful sleep.

`Link, Link wake up. Please love, it's not real, I'm here, it-it's okay.'

Sheik is doing his best to stop Link's fists and feet and elbows and knees colliding with him but there are still probably going to be bruises in the morning. He keeps talking to Link, gentle but insistent, trying to rouse the other with his words and hands. Link's eyes rocket open and muscle memory takes over. He grips Sheik between his thighs and flips them over easily. He traps the other body beneath him and brings a fist up while the other hand settles over Sheik's throat. And then reality sets in. It's like Link's bones melt. His whole body crumples and it feels like he'll drain away completely if Sheik doesn't gather him up and hold him together.

`I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' the litany of apologies doesn't stop. Flowing and trickling and burbling over one another like water from a brook.

Sheik manhandles Link into his lap, `it's alright, shhh love, it's alright,' he rubs Link's back and kisses his forehead. They stay this way until Link stops quivering. Life is kinder to them now, but that doesn't make its earlier cruelties go away.

When things have calmed down a little Sheik steers them both to a proper bed. He lies with Link, still holding him and still telling him it's alright now. Despite everything, Sheik doesn't fall asleep but he doesn't get up either. Not even after Link's breathing has evened out and much better dreams than before find him. It used to be like this a lot more often. After one particularly bad night, Sheik ended up with a broken nose and a black eye, Link refused to sleep anywhere near him. It didn't last, every time the nightmares started Sheik came running. Still it took a while for Link to be convinced he didn't need to get through this by himself.

He wakes up feeling terrible. Not physically, nothing hurts and his body feels well rested. But emotionally everything feels like mud. It's only made worse when he sees the grey-purple bruise on Sheik's chest. There's only the one but even just that is more than there ever should be. Sheik cups Link's face in his hands,

`I'm fine, it was an accident, you don't need to beat yourself up about this.'

Link doesn't look at him, `It's. . . I just-'

`I know, love, I know.'

Sheik desperately wishes there was something more he could do to stop Link worrying about this besides kiss him. But there were times when talking wasn't the most eloquent way he could use his mouth to show how he felt. He can physically feel Link uncoil as they kiss. As if all he was waiting for was to be reminded that, regardless of what happens, he is loved, and always will be.

They don't have time to indulge themselves really. They untangle as slowly as they're able to with stray fingers catching in hair and clothes along the way. Then practicality sets in. They clean up. They saddle the horses. They make one last pass of the house to make sure everything is as they left it. Then they leave, and Hyrule field welcomes them into its grassy expanse. They still know it back to front, upside-down and inside out, even if it has been years. Link often feels like he should miss it but he just doesn't. It's so full of this bizarre mish-mash of excellent and terrible memories that he wonders if they cancel each other out and that's why he just feels nothing.

He can see the castle, to be fair he's been able to see it since they left Kakariko, he's just been ignoring it. He wants to see Zelda again; he knows Sheik does too. Even though they've never stopped talking in the years since it all happened, it's hardly ever been face to face. It's not as if she can up leave the castle for a weekend away by the sea and coming to her presents its own troubles for Sheik and Link. Neither of them are vastly comfortable with being renowned. The staring is bearable, being stopped and having to make awkward polite conversation is something they can deal with too. The offers of sickeningly well paid employment to act as little more than window dressing can be turned down. As can the solicitations of marriage and. . . other things. The hard part, the really, honestly, exhausting hard part is that none of it ever stops.

They wave gamely to the guards at the gate as they ride through and into Castle Town. One of the younger ones almost drops their halberd trying to free and hand to wave back with. Sheik smiles at them. It's his kind smile, the one where his eyes crinkle at the corners and it makes you feel like there's an in-joke just the two of you share. The guard's ears turn a bit pink. Link raises an eyebrow at Sheik who just shrugs. They've seen enough people be star struck by the other that no one's bothered by it anymore. Especially not when Link has been on the receiving end of far more of Sheik's smiles than anyone else. Especially when some of them no one has seen but him.

The ride through town is as they expect. People stop, people stare, people have furious whispered conversations. They are followed and pointed at and waved to. They wave back, particularly to any children they go passed. When they reach the castle gates the dribble of people following them pools and stops. Only they can pass beneath the portcullis unperturbed. It's a small blessing. A boy sprints across the yard in front of them and off into the castle to start the verbal chain that'll tell Zelda they've arrived. They dismount and hand Sterren and Epona's reins to a waiting hostler before climbing the steps into the castle themselves. Now they just have to wait and brace themselves for whatever it is that Zelda has to say to them.

* * *

Okay, so, actual things start happening soon I promise. Also, I'm not completely sure this is a sensible or suitable way to deal with someone having a God awful nightmare. . . probably should have googled it to check. Probable inaccuracies aside I hope everyone has a good weekend and chapter 3 should be up in a couple of weeks.  
Freckles


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, here we go, chapter three up on time. Thanks for sticking with me so far, it means a lot as cheesy as it sounds. In fact a read, a favourite, a follow, a review, an interpretive dance signifying your enjoyment all straight up make my day.  
Thanks again because I can literally never say it enough,  
Freckles

* * *

She is quite frankly breath taking when she descends the stairs. She's not dressed to the nines in her full queen regalia, just a plain, well-made dress. The back of it slides down the treads of the stairs after her. Her hair is all piled up on top of her head, stray strands falling out of the bun and down to her shoulders. She walks like a queen though, which is all that matters. Until, of course, she catches the eyes of her best friends beaming up at her from the bottom of the steps. Her regal deportment goes out the window and she starts taking the steps two at a time. Each of them gets pulled into a good, long hug by way of a greeting.

`I'm so glad you're here.' Zelda steps back from smothering Link.

`We were summoned Your Majesty,' Sheik dips into an insincerely deep bow, `we came as swiftly as we were able.'

Zelda swats at him, `you are so impolite.'

Link grins at them both. It's never been hard to tell that they were raised like siblings. Part of him used to get sad that he didn't fit into the equation anywhere. As much as he loved hearing stories from when the two of them were little it just reminded him that he wasn't there. Until, after a few years, he realised that whenever they told those stories, they told them in a way that meant, actually, he had been there.

He remembers the time Zelda got stuck in a tree trying to fetch a kite. He remembers how they used to swap who was who every day. He remembers how upset they were when puberty meant they couldn't get away with it anymore. He remembers when Sheik hid a litter of abandoned kittens in his room. He remembers, because they made him part of the equation, and that's all that matters.

`So, Zel, to what do we owe the pleasure?'

As the master of diplomacy she's grown to be, the frown that tugs at her brows lasts for just fractions of a second.

`Oh that, pay it no mind, it can wait until later,' she waves her hands dismissively, `get settled first, eat something.'

They both perk up at the mention of food. A major benefit of being at the castle has always been the well-staffed and equally well-stocked kitchens. Zelda ushers them on and up the stairs, valets following behind with their belongings. After a few more sets of stairs and a carefully selected collection of corridors from the castle's warren they `retire to one of the small drawing rooms', Zelda's words not theirs. The luggage parted ways with them a while back but, as always, will find its own way to their room.

There is already a tray full of small meat pies, cheese tarts, vegetable turnovers, fruit, sweet buns and cakes set out, alongside a pot of tea and a pitcher of water. Link tried very hard to walk sedately towards the table where the food is but it's a struggle. Judging from Sheik's awkward drifting in that direction too he's having the same problem. Zelda laughs at them,

`Oh go on you great fools, eat, it is what it's there for.'

Sheik manages to at least get settled on the couch before reaching to cram the nearest pie into his mouth. It's good. It's really fucking good. It's not as if he and Link can't cook, they had to learn by necessity, but there are just some things you need a palace kitchen for. As soon as he finishes the pie he takes another. Link is already three down and neither of them particularly want to stop right now. Zelda's got her benevolent 'boys confuse me but I'm fond of these ones anyway' smile on. She just waits for them to be done, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed.

Sheik brushes a few crumbs off his fingers and pours himself another glass of water. He pries his boots off so he can draw his legs underneath himself and curl up on the couch. Link wraps an arm around him and manoeuvres them both so that Sheik is tucked up against his side. It's never something they would normally do in front of other people but here with Zelda everything's alright.

`I suppose I ought to explain things a little,' she starts twining her fingers together, `there is a diplomatic dinner this evening which I would be grateful if the two of you would attend.'

`What kind of diplomatic dinner? Trade deals? Border stuff? They're not making you get married are they?' There's a tinge of concern in the inflection of Link's last question.

`No, no, it's not a marriage negotiation. I'm still more than alright on my own.'

`Then what is it?'

She twists the ring on her index finger, `there is. . . there is an ally of ours. To the north, it's not a large country, mostly . . . mostly rural. The Kirinian Empire is marching on them. They cannot defend themselves-'

`So we go to war?'

Link's interruption wasn't kind and his jaw is clenched so tight Sheik can hear his teeth creak. Sheik threads his fingers into Links. He doesn't like the sound of where this is going either but he has no desire to see them argue. And anyway, if the Empire is involved, they don't have much of a choice. If Hyrule's neighbours fall to it then all that will happen is that they'll wake up to the legions camped on their borders. There's far more to it than just an alliance to uphold.

Zelda sighs, `yes, depending on how this evening unfolds, we go to war.' She looks down at her lap, `I'm sorry.'

Sheik replies before Link says something everyone would wind up regretting, `It was going to happen sooner or later. We all knew that.'

No one says anything after that. They don't look at one another either. It really was always going to happen. Just because Hyrule was content within its own borders didn't mean every nation was. None more so than the Empire. All eyes had been nervously turned west since its first bloody bout of expansion two decades ago. It just so happened that for a while Hyrule and the lands around it had been rendered an unappealing option with regards to conquering. Now, free of apocalyptic doom and led by a young queen, greedy eyes shifted to covet its green expanses.

Zelda breaks the restless silence, `please, just. . .just please come tonight. You don't have to do anything else just please do that.'

Sheik squeezes Link's hand, `of course we will.'

The end of the conversation marks the end of lunch as well. Zelda excuses herself so she can go back to her study and finish some paper work for the parliament. Link and Sheik were guided to their room by a chatty, round-faced maid. As sweet as she was she didn't manage to fix Link's sour mood. Sheik just kept his fingers curled around Link's in a silent show of support. They would have to be on best, stately behaviour later so it seemed only fair to let Link feel what he was feeling right now.

They've been set up in one of the big, airy state visitors rooms. It's big enough that there's room for a couch and armchairs and a sizeable desk as well as an aggressively large four-poster bed. The bathroom extends off in a separate room to one side and a balcony stretches the entire length of the room, looking down over the knot garden. Their bags are neatly piled at the foot of the bed. Link hurls himself down on the mattress, his limbs bouncing back up a little with the force of the recoil. He groans into the pillow. Sheik pats him gently on the leg before starting to unpack. Things are a bit more creased than he'd like but it'll have to do.

`Kitten, I. . . I can't do this.' Link's voice is tiny, hidden amongst the pillows and sheets. It gets even smaller, `I'm. . .I'm scared.'

Sheik puts down the shirt he was holding and crawls onto the bed with Link. Link immediately shifts towards him, allowing Sheik to wrap him up in tight arms and soft blankets.

`I know, it'll be. . . it's alright, I. . . I am too.' And he was, and no matter how hard he tried to block it out, drown it out, with simple everyday tasks like folding shirts he couldn't stop the little voice in his head that kept saying `frightened, frightened, frightened,' over and over.

`I'm not. . . I'm not that person anymore. I don't want to be, I don't like him, the one that. . . that kills things.'

Sheiks stomach clenches, memories of desperate fights and blood and crying and vomiting until there was nothing left to come up swam around his mind like putrid oil on water. Seventeen-year-olds aren't meant to fight for their lives. Seventeen-year-olds aren't meant to kill people. Seventeen-year-olds aren't meant to spend nights shivering alone and weeping silently over what they've had to do.

Sheik kisses Link's forehead, `I know love, I know,' he wishes he had something better to say. Surely, after all these years he should have something better to say?

`Do we have a choice?' Link's brows are pulled together in the middle.

`She. . .she won't make us. If we really can't face it she won't make us'

`But?'

But Link's a hero. He's strength and skill and hope neatly packaged in well-worn boots. Send him along with the army and part of the war is already won. And, as much as neither one of them wants to admit it, they both still remember how to fight. How to handle a blade. How to kill a man.

Sheik sighs, `but she needs us.'

Link shifts in their blanket cocoon, `it'll be better this time right?'

`Yes,' it sounds bit wobbly, unsure, so he says it again, `yes,' with a firmness he's not sure he's got in him, `because we don't have to be alone anymore, and nothing is ever, ever going to take me away from you.' He cups Link's face in his hands.

Link presses his forehead to Sheik's, `I love you.'

`I love you too.'

They stay coiled up for a while longer, waiting until fear retreats a bit before they unravel from the bed sheets and Sheik finishes unpacking the clothes. He pulls his book from where he'd stowed it in the saddle bags and ensconces himself in one of the armchairs to read. Link leans against the balcony railings. He watches a pair of gardeners tussle weeds out from between the intricately planted box hedges. He feels tired. Judging by the hunch of his shoulders Link is pretty sure Sheik does too. There isn't much they can do now except take hours between now and dinner to rebuild themselves. To ease into their official diplomatic personas, all flawless and smooth.

When the time comes, they wash. Time and practicality demanding that they largely ignore the intricately tiled sunken tub in the middle of the room. Link slips into his instantly recognisable green outfit. The one everyone believes he wore during his fight with Ganon. Except it's not that one, that one lives buried in a draw at their house. This one is actually Zelda's royal tailor's reimagining of it. Made out of silk and gold embroidery thread and impractically thin leather. He feels kind of silly in it, a grown man dressed like a fairy boy but according to Zelda the symbolism of it all is quite important.

Sheik doesn't have an expensive reworking of his leather Sheikah suit, they all agreed it was slightly too tight for formal situations. Instead he has a deep, dove grey raw silk Sheikah jacket that skims the tops of his thighs and is held in place by a wide dark blue leather belt that sits around his thin waist. The long, wide sleeves can be carefully kilted up and tied out of the way at his elbows if the need arises. His silk trousers are wide through the thigh but are bound tight from his calf down. The undershirt is the only thing reminiscent of his old bodysuit, skin tight and cut so that slivers of shoulder and collar bone peak out from under the jacket. The collar however rises all the way up his neck, covering his whole throat, to skate the line between elegant modesty and perfectly on show. The whole outfit is embroidered with tiny, red Sheikah symbols.

Sheik helps pull the lacing tight on Link's left glove. He lets his fingers drift up the inside of Link's wrist and arm before leaning his head down onto a broad shoulder. Hands come up to rest on his back and tangle into his hair.

`Calm before the storm huh?'

Link laughs lightly, `yeah, got to batten down the hatches I guess.'

Link answers the knock at the door that comes a few minutes later, a liveried servant bows and ushers them out of the room. They hold hands and follow in silence, letting all the hallways blend together. They gave up trying to navigate the palace on their own years ago, they're here so infrequently that the effort didn't seem worth it. The doors to the state dining room are huge. Two huge Floor to ceiling pieces of oak, carved and painted with a recounting of Hyrule's creation. The three Goddesses stared down at them, their wooden features fixed in graceful impassivity. A quick squeeze of their clasped hands before the door opens and they walk through, shoulders set straight with faux confidence, to agree to go to war.

* * *

And lo, a sort of plot rears its head. What a novelty to find one in one of my pieces of writing, who'd have thought it? My buffer of already written chapters is still going strong so updates should continue to be regular for the foreseeable future. I'm quietly quite pleased with myself for not having let it all go to shit already.  
See you in a couple of weeks,  
Freckles


	4. Chapter 4

Look, it's chapter four, I'm sure you're all very surprised to see it here right after chapter three and before chapter five. Thank you so much for getting here despite the slow updates. Thank you so much for getting here full stop. Thank you for putting up me saying thanks so much (it's never going to stop by the way, I'm just that much of a gushy fool).  
Cheers,  
Freckles

* * *

Being on the road by yourself is grim. Being on the road with an entire army's worth of people is worse. Everything moves achingly slowly. The clanking, crunching, meandering trail of people keeps snaking on and on and on. Sheik watches it shimmer along behind them. The sunlight glaring off the weapons and armour and wagons and tack vaguely hypnotic when to the tune of hundreds of feet and hooves moving in time. He and Link, having no company or squad of their own, found themselves riding along with the Field Marshall. Lord Innes-Ker was a reasonably interesting man but after a week and a half they'd more or less run out of things to say to one another.

They'd both fallen out of practice at spending time around other people. Unsure when to let silence lie comfortably and when to fill it with idle remarks. Continually dancing to the beat of polite conversation got exhausting very quickly. Everyone was so careful around everyone else. The knights and captains that lead the squads were doggedly maintaining stilted formality with Link and the Field Marshall. It made the strategy discussion that Lord Innes-Ker held in his tent last far longer than they should.

The head of every company had to attend the daily debriefing so that information could be passed relatively easily. It still had to filter down the layers of command from knight commanders to knight captains to sergeants and finally to the ordinary soldiers. At least the meetings gave Link a chance to get familiar with the names and faces of some of Hyrule's knights. During his previous exploits the army had been in utter disarray so he's never really met anyone from it. Still, some he does know a little, Sir van der Renne he'd been introduced to at a ball once and Sir Fischer too. But they were both older knights, well established before Hyrule's troubles began.

The younger knights have less of that comfy old armchair feel about them. Some because they're louder, more gung-ho, and have less moustache. Others are just, understandably, less sure of themselves. There are definitely faces that stay, somewhat hidden, in the back of the tent when discussion is under way. Link sort of wishes he could join them every so often, when the arguments draw on a little too long and a little too loudly. Still, most of the knights he's seen are what you would expect of military folk. Then, there's Sir Estienne, who seems like the kind of man who could cut you with his smile as well as with his sword.

The increasingly loud thud of hooves and consequent jingling of both amour covered horse and rider made for the world's worst stealthy approach. The scout reigned their horse in as they drew level with the Field Marshall.

`There's an inn up ahead my lord, they've space enough for the men to set up camp nearby.'

Lord Innes-Ker nods, `we're unlikely to find anything better, what say you Sir Champion?'

Link shudders a bit, `I agree your lordship, nothing better will turn up before sunset.'

He hates his title, Sir Champion, it sounds so pompous but he has no family name and he never seems able to convince anyone to use his given name. The scout takes off down the rest of the marching line, spreading the word about where and when they'll stop for the day. An inn means that it's likely the officers will get proper rooms to stay in with real beds and baths. Every aching muscle in him shrieked a little louder at the thought. Just on the off chance that'd he'd forgotten they were there. He hadn't. Oh Goddesses he hadn't.

The stable boy waiting for them outside the inn looks a little ill when he registers just how many of them there were. He hollers over his shoulder and a handful of other hostlers appeared who all shared a look. A lot of shirt sleeve rolling and shoulder squaring happens as they get ready for the deluge of work about to arrive. Link dismounts from Epona and hands her reigns to a tall girl that blows gently into Epona's nose, who obligingly huffs back, before leading her away. The entire courtyard of the inn is swimming with people. He turns around to try and look for Sheik. He thinks he see Sterren being walked into the stables but not his rider. A hand gives his shoulder a firm squeeze,

`Sir Champion, you look bereft.'

`Not particularly Sir Pauw, just looking for someone.' He smiles at the knight without putting a lot of effort into it.

Sir Pauw is a man almost entirely made out of quadrilaterals. Large quadrilaterals at that. He's friendly enough, he's talked to Link a few times and the conversations have never been a drag per se. They just haven't exactly been riveting either.

`Sir Pauw, I was unaware you even knew what the word bereft meant, congratulations on using it in a sentence.'

`Estienne I hardly think-'

`My point exactly. Anyway, Sir Powys needs you for something, I can only assume it's heavy lifting.'

Pauw frowns, his blocky features pulling together into tessellating shapes. Sir Astrup, one half of Pauw's perpetual side order, opens his mouth, while the other half, Sir Ross, shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. Astrup clearly fails to think of anything to say at all, let alone something witty and presses his lips back together. Wordlessly, the three of them seem to decide to give the encounter up as a bad job and turn to leave. Estienne grins his sharp little grin at their retreating backs.

He turns to Link, `I think I saw him helping unload one of Roucy's company's wagons. They're pitching their tents over by the edge of that coppice.'

There's not really a need to ask who _him_ is, `thank you.'

Estienne shrugs, `If I were you I know who I'd rather be talking to.'

Link laughs and pulls a face, eyebrows are raised in sympathy. They shake hands and part ways. Link hears Estienne hailing another soldier by calling him a beautiful bastard as he walks away. He's a sharp man, but quite probably a good man.

Link walks briskly over to the coppice hoping that the purposefulness of the movement will stop people talking to him. It's not easy going, bodies and tent poles and supply packs jumble around him. He ducks around an irritated looking sergeant yelling out orders from a scrap of paper. A bag of tent pegs disembowels itself in front of him, a young soldier scrambling to stuff everything back in. He jumps lightly over them, waving to the frightened boy behind him in apology.

He can see him, travel coat thrown aside, the muscles in his tanned arms standing out under the stress of lifting the supply bags down from the pack horse. Link can't stop staring, especially not when Shiek's skin tight, sleeveless Sheikah vest let him watch all the muscles in Sheik's back move when he stretches. It's been far too long since he last touched him. Sir Roucy appears, clapping Sheik so firmly on the back he wobbles a bit and pumping his hand.

`Excellent show, excellent show. Stand up chap you are if I say so myself Sirrah.'

`It's nothing Sir Roucy, things just get done faster if everyone helps.'

`Aha ha my lad, quite true, quite true.' Roucy inhales noisily, his aggressively red moustache jiggling from side to side, and raises himself up on to his tiptoes. It's an odd action, made odder still by the wheezy cough he makes on the way down again. `For the circulation my boy, good circulation is all a man needs.'

Sheik hadn't asked what it had all been about, he'd been perfectly willing to just ignore it. He's also not sure what exactly it was supposed to be doing to help the ruddy-faced man's circulations but each to their own. Roucy coughs again and carries on,

`helps with the ladies don't you know.'

Sheik gazes out across the bustling field in mild horror. He catches sight of the only person who has a right to have eyes that blue,

`Oh thanks the Goddesses.'

`What was that lad?'

Sheik ignores Roucy, calling out and waving instead `Link, how-'

`Well I'll be damned, Sir Champion, to what do I owe the honour?' A great deal more vigorous hand shaking goes on. Link's fingers get far more well acquainted with Roucy's meaty, red little hands than he ever anticipated they would.

`I came to find Sheik, Sir Ro-'

`Stephan, call me Stephan, I won't hear a word against it.'

`Oh, er, yes, well, I came to find Sheik. . .Sir. . .Stephan. . .'

`Oh ho ho, so you know this exotic young fellow, marvellous, marvellous.'

They both cringe at the word exotic. Sir `call me Stephan' doesn't seem to notice and embarks on his sniffing, snorting, bizarre calf raise rigmarole again. He turns to Link and leans in to whisper,

`It's for the circulation you know, helps a man with the ladies.' A conspiratorial finger is tapped against the side of a nose

`Oh, does it? Lovely. . .' he can see Sheik raise an eyebrow at him over Roucy's shoulder. `I think that Lord Innes-Ker. . . might. . . need us for . . . something. . . probably.'

`Well then,' they both got thunderous smacks on the shoulder while Roucy chuckled to himself, `don't let me keep you good sirs, be away with you.'

Sheik bumps into his shoulder as they walk away, `you're fucking terrible at lying, I hope you know that.'

Link groans, `I have been made aware, yes. I couldn't think of anything else to say.'

Sheik laughs at him, not unkindly, but still at him, `will there be another of his lordship's strategy bun fights this evening?'

`Of course, one must have one at every available opportunity.'

`Joyous,' Sheik huffs, he brushes his fingertips against Links, almost taking his hand but stopping short, `I'll come to your room when you're done.' There's a pause, one that feels like there are words waiting to spew out into it but that keep catching. `I. . .I miss you.'

Link swallows. It's not exactly common knowledge in Hyrule that the two of them are together. To wit, they've been given separate tents or rooms each night. Neither of them were expecting it, in truth is hadn't even occurred to them that they might have to be discreet. They just ended up being caught up in every one assuming they were separate entities, and not the intertwined one they've become, and got swe[t along in the confusion of it. Link had thought that they would be able to just carry on as usual and eventually people would work it out and just go with it. However, it got kind of apparent that that wouldn't happen.

`I miss you too.'

They carry on in silence after that, just letting their fingers, elbows and the backs of their hands brush together while they walk back to the inn. It seems nice enough once they're inside. The entire lower floor of the big timber framed building is more or less one big room. Only the kitchen got the privilege of any dividing walls. A lot of the knights had already found their way to the bar long enough ago that the conversational buzz was getting steadily louder.

A `Sir Champion' hurtles across the room. Sir Pauw sits at its origin, his drink raised in greeting, `perhaps you might join us?'

Link raises a hand in reply. Sheik doesn't follow him when he steps towards Pauw's table. If anything, he draws further away.

`You know, Innes-Ker will probably start the meeting soon and I'll have to leave then anyway so I think I'm just going to head out for a walk.'

Link frowns at Sheik, `okay, sure, if that's what you want. . .' it hurts him, that Sheik doesn't feel comfortable enough to stay inside.

`Yeah, I'll. . . I'll see you later.' Sheik leaves before Link can even reply, long, rushed strides taking him swiftly back out the door.

Link turns back towards the cluster of knights. Most of the younger ones are there, gathered around too small a table. Plenty of full pint mugs vie for space on the pitted wood. Even more empty ones get uselessly in the way. A great upheaval seems to be going to create some space at the table for him. Those unable to sufficiently defend their precious elbow room suddenly find themselves without it. Pauw pats the freshly unoccupied stool clearly meant for Link.

`Thank you,' Link nods politely to the men around the table as he sits.

`I see that Si-sir Sheik has decided not to grace us with his presence.' Astrup fumbles oddly over the title.

`No, he said he fancied some air.'

`Air?' Pauw sounds comically incredulous, `after all that riding who needs more air? I say what we need more of is beer.' The entire group roars as if something remarkably witty had just happened.

Link joins in with a substantially less than half-hearted smile. He dearly hopes that Lord Innes-Ker calls them all to order for the strategy discussions soon.

* * *

Well, I hope everything has been worth reading so far. I'm going to try and keep it that way if it has. Chapter five will be up in a couple of weeks so see you again then.  
Cheers,  
Freckles


	5. Chapter 5

Slightly early because things are happening tomorrow. Anyway, here we go, chapter five. I really hope people are still finding this worth reading, I'm going to keep trying to do everything I can to make it interesting. Thanks, as ever, for being wonderful.  
Freckles

* * *

It was silly of him to run away really. He feels muddy inside, all churned up and opaque and claggy, for leaving Link to deal with them on his own. He tried, at the beginning of the march, to join in. But the longer he kept trying the more clear it got that they didn't really see him as someone to be included. Sir Innes-Ker politely but firmly said there was no place for him there when he tried to go to the first briefing. Some of the older knights point blank ignore him, and others, like Sir Roucy never quite seem to remember where they know him from. The other knights, the Sir Pauws and Astrups and Rosses, were so intent on spending time with Link, on getting his attention, that Sheik was entirely crowded out. Cut off from the only person that was making any of this bearable.

Most of the companies have finished setting up camp now. The last few bits and pieces are being secured and the soldiers are starting to gather around camp fires and cooking pots. He keeps walking, letting tent after tent after tent all blend together. The long-range order of the camp lost on him as the local puddles of chaos slide by. It's good. It's nice. It's a wealth of other mediocre words. He huffs out a big, jaggy-edged, frustrated breath. It could be worse, says his brain. You've seen worse, just be glad it isn't that. He gives the soil a wry grimace. He's very glad that this isn't a lot of things but it doesn't mean he isn't mad at the things that it is.

Out of place sounds ripple through the blurred-out scenery around him. Perturbing the glassy surface of his inattention. It's music. Not shrill tin pipes or lilting folk songs or brash drinking songs the soldiers normally sing and play. It's so different and out of place it reminds him of Sheikah music even though it sounds nothing like the songs he sang as a child. It sounds like some kind of stringed instrument, a drum as well and maybe a flute or pipe or something he doesn't have a name for. He walks towards it, far too curious to ignore the disruption to his fabricated serenity.

There is at least a ten-meter gap between the tents the music is coming from and the rest of the camp. Sheik stops in the middle of this strange moat of nothingness. He must look like a loon, stood stock still beaming at a circle of tents. But the well-worn canvas, patched with scraps of bright, sturdy cloth, the distinctly female voice rising above the music in song and the achingly tempting smell of whatever they are cooking is just so beautifully unexpected.

He doesn't approach cautiously per se, he just doesn't want to assume they'll be happy with his presence. He stops a politely at the edge of the ring of tents. A squad's worth of red-haired women are sprawled between the open tents and around the fire. Some of them laugh at something in the song's lyrics. A joke he can't begin to hope to understand. One of them stands up and makes towards the tent he's stood beside. He waves a little awkwardly and little shyly to catch her attention.

`S-sav'saaba, I . . .ah, I heard the music and. . .'

She grins at him, all teeth and smiley eyes, `sav'saaba,' she reaches out to take him by the hand and pull him into the tent ring.

`Ey, Jamila what have you found?'

Jamila laughs, pulling Sheik against her side and resting a hand on her wide hip, `Hey now, Zaina, you saying you don't recognise everyone's favourite Sheikah voe?'

Sheik can feel his ears going red. Jamila is so tall that his head is neatly tucked against her ribcage so at least no one can see. He grins dumbly to himself.

One of the musicians puts down her instrument, `so, Sir Sheik, is there something you are requiring of us?' She has grey strands showing in her hair and there's a scar that rakes across her arched nose.

`No, Captain,' the Gerudo might have altered their uniforms to suit their tastes and needs but her captain's insignia was still on show. `I was just walking and wanted to know who was playing.'

She grins, wide just like Jamila, `then we should continue no?' She traces painted nails over the strings of her instrument before adding, `I am Aylin, if it pleases you Sir Sheik.'

Jamila thumps him on the back, laughing big and loud, `Ey, sit, sit, listen to the Captain-'

`What you say? Listen to the Captain huh?' The flautist waves a finger at them, `we here just for decoration then?'

`Ah, no, Kelebek, not just for decoration, your music is just as beautiful as your face.' Bright red eyebrows are arched, corners of lips quirk upwards and looks are definitely exchanged before everyone breaks out into fits of giggles again.

`Oh Jamila, sarqso, I always knew you were a good vai. Vaba raised you properly for sure.' Kelebek has a hand pressed to her stomach, breathing a heavily after laughing off the compliment. `Sir Sheik, come, listen, play with us, ey?' She pats the ground next to her.

`Please, please just call me Sheik, and I'd love to listen but I'm not sure it's a good idea to let me play.' Sheik ducks out from under Jamila's arm and sits down next to Kelebek.

`Silliness,' Captain Aylin lays a hand on his shoulder, `all the stories say you have great accomplishments with music.'

`With my lyre maybe but-'

She shrugs, `This is not so different, only that there is a soundboard.'

`And if the Captain can play it, it can't be so hard.'

A mix of chuckles and gently scolding `Jamila's' flutter about while room is made for her to flop down between her squad mates.

Aylin snorts, `she is not so wrong. Here, come, you'll see it is easy.'

He gets the hang of it, slowly. His fingers don't find the right places for the chords as often as he's used to, but, for the most part it doesn't sound so bad. Aylin and Kelebek correct him gently when things go a little awry. It feels so good to be around so much laughing again. The Gerudo joke and flirt and snap at one another with such easy comfort. Angry words and pick up lines alike are all just laughed off.

He gets handed a bowl of lamb and dried apricot stew that had spices in that the rest of the squads would kill to get hold of. It's easily the best thing he's eaten since the march started. Sheik tries very hard not shovel it down like a drowning man would gasp down air. It's easier said than done. It's cosy, it's good, it doesn't last.

`No, but, I'm saying, if one of them voe say I ride well for a desert girl again I will show him I punch well for a desert girl too.' A squad member he's yet to learn the name loudly spits out the last few words.

A murmur of disgruntled agreement burbles up. A lot of the smiles around the fire slowly slide off the faces they'd been on. He's not surprised someone felt the need to vent, especially not here in the safety of the Gerudo's oasis carved out from the sea of tents. Sheik stares down into his bowl. He knew. He's known since he was a kid. It's always been bad for the people that don't look `Hylian'. It's just that, in the years he's been with Link, it started to feel like it didn't matter so much.

Kelebek says something that sounds far too pretty to be the expletive it clear is, `they don't even know what respect is. Telling us we're just `girls'. Telling the Captain she can't go to them dumb, stupid meetings 'cause she's no Hylian man. Saying we can't fight 'cause women can't handle blood. What do they think we deal with every month ey?'

Jamila slides in beside her and wraps herself around Kelebek's shaking shoulders, `we'll show them, we'll show them what we can handle and they'll be begging us to save their fat, hairy arses.'

Captain Aylin rushes to speak, stumbling over her words, worry creeping into her tone `but we bear no ill will to our fellow soldiers, the Hylian army stands unite-'

`It's okay, I'm Sheikah, they don't like me much either.' If feels so good to be so off hand about it all. He smiles as the panic leaves Aylin's face.

She pats his hand, `sarqso.'

`Thank you for,' he waves his hand around vaguely, `this, all of this.'

`You are welcome whenever you would like.'

He grins, it feels a bit like being told he's allowed to come home even though they're literal and figurative miles away from his little house by the sea. He stands up, judging by how dark it's gotten it's likely the Goddess damned strategy meeting is done by now.

`I think it's time for me to go, but, thank you again, so much.'

A chorus of savorqs follow after him as he makes to leave the tent circle. Kelebek and some of the others wave while Jamila yells after him,

`Ey, if anyone give you trouble you send them to me right.'

`Oh, Sir Knight, how you make me swoon.'

She cackles, `I'll always keep you safe princess.'

The camp is still very much awake. Lanterns and camp fires stop him from tripping over stray bits of kit and poorly placed guy ropes. He tunes out the conversations going on around him. Whatever the men are talking about is of little interest to him. He really hopes he's timed it right and that Link will be there when he gets back to the inn. He's already aching for the chance to be alone together again. He wants to touch Link. Badly. It feels like it's been eons since the last time.

The noise he can hear without even stepping inside the inn tell him that the meeting is done. The thunder of young men getting too drunk is too much for even the walls and doors to contain. He doesn't really want to go in there and deal with whatever drunkenness makes the young knights feel is acceptable to say. He stares at the upper floor. If he remembers right Link's window should be at the back of the building somewhere. He trots around the side of the inn. It was the fourth room right? There's light coming through the shutters of the fourth window across. That one it is then.

It's an easy climb. The rough stone blocks offer plenty of purchase and he's only got to get up to the first floor. The windowsill is narrow but there's enough room for his toes and he's got the top if the wooden frame in a death grip. Sheik taps his knuckles against the shutter. He hears furniture scrape and then footsteps coming towards his skinny perch. Thankfully the shutters open inwards.

Link shouldn't have been surprised really. Who else would climb up to his window of an evening? Still, he couldn't help being a bit startled when he opened the shutters.

`What the fuck man?' He grabs Sheik's arm and pulls him into the room.

`I did say I'd be coming.' Sheik slides his arm through Link's loosened grip until he can twine their fingers together.

`I know, I know, I just didn't imagine it'd be through the window.' Link reaches out with his free hand and pushes Sheik's bangs out of the way, `kind of romantic though.'

They're chest to chest now, `well, I am quite dashing.'

`Mmmhmmm, I know.'

They still aren't close enough together. Link tips Sheik's chin down. It's been too long, far, far too long. He hasn't felt this needy when they've kissed for a long time. It's like being a teenager again. His stomach is tying itself into knots and he's acutely aware of the sensation of their lips moving together. He lets Sheik grab fistfuls of his hair. They're far too desperate for niceness. He jams his hands inside Sheik's clothes in a joyous reunion with his skin. Oh Goddesses he needs more than this. Very insistent hands pull him to the bed.

`We have to be quiet.'

`I know.'

`I love you kitten.'

`I love you too.'

* * *

Okay, so confession time, things might get a bit ropey update-wise for a while in the near future. Basically, things are happening that don't leave me with as much time to write as I'd like and I've been feeling kinda crappy lately and so I've just been struggling to get the words down. I'm going to try and not let it affect things as best I can but sorry in advance if I don't manage this.  
Freckles


	6. Chapter 6

It's that time again, thankfully still on schedule. Before we kick thing off I just want to let people know that this chapter gets a bit bloody (as do others from this point on) and I would hate for that to cause anyone any distress so please be warned. I've bumped the rating up because of this as well. Anyway, on with the show, please enjoy and have a wonderful day.  
Freckles

* * *

The border was far behind them now. Link wasn't exactly sure what he expected to happen when they crossed it. Perhaps that he'd feel different or that the scenery would suddenly and dramatically change. But, as he found out, very little happens when you pass by an arbitrary line on a map. The Hylian army had been greeted by a spattering of militia men sent by the allied King. They stood a wary distance away as the glittering metallic river of Hyrule's armed forces pooled out of the mountain pass.

Despite any initial fears they soon proved were invaluable. Leading the lumbering mass of bodies from camp to camp. Steering them away from natural obstacles and the worst of the terrain. They did however, bring bad news. The Empire had invaded. Any hope they had of meeting the enemy before they crossed the opposite border was gone. Now, they were marching towards the front lines of a war already underway. It made things difficult the closer they got to the front. Everyone seemed to be in one of two moods; keyed up in anticipation of a battle or resignedly bleak. Who felt what had an almost direct correlation with who'd seen combat before.

Link was beginning to find Pauw and company unbearable. He was a polite man, he knew the soldiers appreciated it when he rode along with their company, so he tried not to play favourites. Still, just because he keeps quiet about them doesn't mean he doesn't have favourites. For all his oddity, Sir Roucy and his company have a special place in Link's affections. Listening to Roucy's tall tales about his inappropriate actions as a youth is entertaining enough without Colour Sergeant Anders' running commentary outlining every single factual inaccuracy. Even the ordinary squaddies aren't afraid to remind their captain when he strays from the truth with cries of `a man's word is his honour sir' and `Fifteen? it was more like two sir, and one of them came at you with a fork.'

Riding with van der Renne's company is a more sedate affair. The whole lot of them seem to have agreed to match their captain's whisper loud speaking voice, even their horses seem quieter than the rest. Still, what Sir van der Renne lacks in volume he makes up for with hawk-eyed curiosity. It's not a surprise that he's Commander in Chief of the scouts and his wife Alessandra, whom Link has only met because he was with Zelda at the time, is the Queen's Spymistress. Every available piece of new information goes via the company and its captain. Within a few hours of passing the border van der Renne had truffled out every morsel of information the militia men had about anything, ever. He was very lucky that both van der Rennes seemed to like him, and that, whenever he needed to know anything, he could ask the knight.

Still, far and away, the best company to be with was Aylin's. Partly because the Gerudo expected nothing of him than being himself, and also, because Sheik was there. There was something beautiful about being able to watch Sheik be somewhere he felt comfortable. Somewhere they didn't have to pretend they weren't disgustingly in love with each other. Although, their willingness to drop his title and simply call him Link alone was enough to make him adore them. He also had Kelebek and one her sisters to thank for showing him how to do far better things with his hair than scrape it back into a ponytail as best he could even if this was only after they both amply out-drew him on the make-shift archery range they all cobbled together.

He tightens his grip on his reigns. He wishes he was still with them, making a hash of riding along hand in hand with Sheik while Jamila wolf-whistles at them. As it is, he's stuck, listening to young men bluster about war.

`The only good imperial soldier is a dead imperial soldier.' Sir Hervey shakes a fist to emphasise his point.

`Here, here' Thynn fist bumps Hervey's shoulder while others holler in agreement from further back in the group.

Astrup chimes in, `we'll have to watch our step when we get home boys, the women'll be so wet for us we'll be wading.'

Link can't stop himself snorting quietly to himself. He's sure that the women of Hyrule have far better things to do than create rivers from their vaginas for a bunch of aggressively cocky boys. Still, if it is as Astrup seems to have deluded himself it will be, Link hopes everyone stays suitably hydrated.

`All of you lot better be happy with seconds because I'm planning on fucking my way through them all before mother makes me marry.'

Pauw is a tool. An absolute tool. Goddesses help the poor lady whose family makes her Pauw's wife. No one should be subjected to that no matter how `advantageous' the match might be. There's a lot of noise being made but Link isn't really listening. As far as he can tell the other knights aren't too keen on the idea of Pauw getting to all the women first.

`That's bollocks, what woman would choose you over me?'

`One that isn't blind. See, I don't look like the back end of a horse like you Ross. Anyway, who could resist me when I return with the fabulous spoils of war? There's just something about a man that's felt the glory of the kill, isn't there Sir Champion?'

Link turns to look at Pauw. His big, blocky chest is all thrown out and he looks so confident that Link is going to agree with him. All the other knights are staring, waiting for him to speak,

`The only thing that comes from killing is one dead thing and one slightly less dead thing. No glory in that.' It comes out very tersely. They look disappointed, but he can't help but think they're a bit foolish if they thought he was going to tell them that taking a life was some great big lark. They're young just like he is, some of them still look like boys, he has no desire to lie about what they're going to end up seeing.

`Still, the ladies love a good battle scar.' A tool. A Goddess-damned fucking tool, `I reckon even the Queen'd open her legs for me after this. I bet she's a fucking filthy little minx. I'd love to come between her thighs.'

Hervey and Thynn exchange looks. Astrup's face is pale, and Ross is staring intently at his horse's ears. An uneasy shuffle passes through the knights. Partly because it seems so wrong to talk about the Queen that way and partly because Link's face looks like a thunderstorm.

He's going to hit Pauw. He's going to hit him and not stop until his jaw is so broken he can never, ever talk like that again. He's going to shatter that ugly, rot-spewing maw. That way it can't churn out such smug, self-aggrandising bile again. He's not even going to feel sorry he's doing it. Even if it cracks and bloodies his knuckles it'd still be worth it, and so, so satisfying. For Zelda. For Sheik. For himself. For anyone that's ever had to spend time listening to this unapologetically sickening scab of humanity.

Bugles shriek out in front of them. They're riding along a road so old it's surface has been worn down enough that the banks either side of them rise up like little walls. The whole army is boxed in between them. The militia men had said they were still a few days away from the front. This shouldn't be happening. Link's anger drains away like water out of a leaky bucket.

`What's happening?'

`Ambush! A fucking ambush.'

`Where are they? I'll kill 'em.'

`We're dead, oh Goddesses, we're dead.'

`Calm down, stupid horse, it's just noise.'

`Fuck man, don't just swing that around.'

`Where ARE they?'

`Great Goddess please, lend an ear to my plea . . . '

`What do we do?' Ross' voice is hoarse, he's looking at Link.

Slowly the entire group turn to look at him too. `Gather your companies and watch the banks. You are trained knights; you trust your men and they trust you. Innes-Ker had us plan for this, you can do this. Protect your backs and stay alive.' Pale, sweaty faces nod at him. `Go, now, go on, what are you waiting for?'

They scatter, awkwardly manoeuvring passed each other to find their men. He hears cries of `van Lawick company on me' and `brace men, we'll see them off'. His heart is thundering. The Master Sword feels heavy against his thigh. It's been so long. So blissfully long since he's had to draw it. The grip fits perfectly in his palm, the winged hilt swoops elegantly out on either side of his hand. The blade is almost eerily well-balanced. Whatever comes, it's steel will keep him safe.

He scrambles to jam his helm on as a volley of arrows arcs down into the road. He hears men fall. Hobnail-booted feet skitter down the near vertical bank. The Imperial soldiers look uncomfortably indistinguishable in their uniforms. All of them nameless, identical threats. They advance while the Hylian army is kept pinned down by the archers. Link has his shield held above his head, arrows ricocheting off it. Epona whinnies. The hammering rain of volleys lets up as the foot soldiers get closer.

He urges Epona forward. She lashes out, iron shod hooves raking over helmeted faces. He trusts his knees and saddle to keep him in place. A halberd juts out towards him, he twists out of the way and pins the wooden shaft under his arm. He jerks the whole thing towards him, pulling the man holding the other end off balance and cuts him down. He ignores the thoughts that bubble up when he sees blood on the Master Sword again. No time now. Later, feel everything later.

He clings to Epona again as she whirls about on her hind legs. The Imperial soldiers shy back, away from her angry lashings. More pole arms bristle at him. Sharp and shiny and ready to be bloodied. He parries them, trying to cleave the blades clean off the shafts. He catches one, misses another. It glances off his pauldron. The hands at the other end of it twist it skilfully finding purchase in a gap in his armour. He hisses as it bites into his arm, cold and vicious. He thrusts back fiercely in pained retribution. It clatters off the nose-guard of the man's helm, Link's sword tip gouging into his eye.

Don't think. Keep moving. Hands reach out grasping at him and trying to tug him to the ground. He's in his riding saddle, not the saddle with a built-up front and back used during battle, he can feel himself slipping. More hands find purchase on his legs and waist. He hammers his pommel down breaking fingers indiscriminately. There's nothing he can do. They drag him down onto the hard earth of the road. His shield gets wrenched from his arm. He's trashing, wild and vicious, using every edge and point he has to hurt them. He will not die on his back on the ground.

A foot crashes down onto his barbute helm, his brain feels like it's ringing inside his skull. He drives the Master Sword up. He hears a howl as it slices deep into thigh muscle. Epona screeches above him. She fights like a true destrier. Even without a rider a well-trained war horse can wreak havoc. He uses her distraction to get to his feet. More bodies, more blows, more blood. Don't stop. Never stop. Find the gaps, no armour is impenetrable. Aim for the joints metal can't bend around. Use the weight of the blade to rend through whatever gets in your way.

The Imperial troops are falling back. There weren't anywhere near enough of them to outman the Hylians. It seems pointless to Link. Sure, the terrain offered the perfect chance to ambush but why send so few men. If the Empire wanted to end it now they were going about it the wrong way. So, what was the point? Something sharp grazes his neck. It stings but doesn't feel deep. Not good enough for the soldier in front of him. The short sword whips towards him again. He steps towards the blow and bats the blade away with the armoured back of his free hand. He can see the Imperial soldier panic. There's no space to counter, the Master Sword slides quietly between his ribs.

The tide of enemies has been steadily receding. He looks for the next attack, the next blade, the next spilling of blood. Nothing comes. His hands are shaking. Everything he's not been thinking about swells up and crashes down. He wants to throw up. But, clear as a bell, through all the buzzing noise in his mind, where is Sheik? Where is Sheik? Where is Sheik? Where is Sheik? Where is Sheik?

`Sheik' he's screaming. Over and over, tearing his throat up with the force of his name. `Sheik.'

He can't see him. Even if the seething mass of people is ebbing away. Where is Sheik. Be alive. Be alive. Be alive. Aylin's company was further down the marching line. He whirls around, sprinting.

`Sheik.'

Bodies. Standing, crouching, lying, dying. Not his. Not his body. Where is Sheik. Be alive. Move faster. Be alive.

`Sheik.'

A thick arm shoots out, gripping his torso, knocking the wind out of him. They fall to the ground He fights it. Claws and bites and snarls at it.

`Sheik.'

He bears his teeth at the face jostling up against his. He knows that face.

`Sheik.'

The earth shatters. Once, twice, three times. Loud and hot and smoky. Fire and rock and trees and bodies erupt into the air. There's no sound anymore. Just ringing and ringing and ringing. He's gone limp under the arm pinning him to the floor. What was road and bank and wood is now detritus. A man-made mountain stretches up away from them. This is it. This is what the Empire wanted. Chaos and an army cleaved into helpless little pieces.

`Sheik.' Not screaming now, only whimpering

`Sir Sheik's a strong young man sir, he'll be fine. I promise' Colour Sergeant Anders lets go of him and sits up, brushing away dust from the explosion.

Link curls in on himself whispering the only word he's got left, `Sheik.'

* * *

Okay, so, I'm going to level with you, this is a shameless request for some feedback. Is this even mildly entertaining? Should I carry on or just stop and bury all evidence that this happened? Should I stop talking now and leave you in peace? Yes, yes I should. . . I hope you have an excellent weekend and I really need to stop now I have to go and get on a plane to Estonia.  
Freckles


	7. Chapter 7

**Please be aware this chapter contains:** blood, moderate violence, burgeoning arseholery and attempted sass. **Please be aware this author contains:** a mild shellfish allergy, questionable fashion choices, a lot of tea and a mounting crisis of confidence (dear God someone please help me). Jokey content warnings aside, I sincerely hope my content doesn't cause anyone any distress and that people continue to find reading this worthwhile and interesting.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

Thynn is dead. Hervey's sat with his head in his lap, petting his hair as if it might still do some good. Everyone's pretending they can't see Hervey cry. The knights that survived through their first combat are either standing, wide-eyed, pale and unable to move or trying to be as busy as humanly possible. Ross hasn't stopped looking at his hands for the past five minutes while van Lawick keeps insisting he's fine helping collect the dead despite vomiting after he moves every single one.

Innes-Ker stands over Link while a medical officer stitches the wound on his arm. The Lord hasn't said a word yet, just hovered like a tight-lipped sentinel. They're waiting for van der Renne to come back. He and his scouts have gone to survey the damage and see what can be done about the rock slides that have cut the army into pieces. It looks worse in some places than others. Many seem to have made imperfect dams, allowing the Hylian troops to dribble through and puddle together here.

Link feels grey. The dust from the explosion has painted him a dull sepia to match. He can feel the suturing of his arm but that's about it. He keeps staring back down the road where he'd still be curled up on the ground if it wasn't for Anders. Instead the Colour Sergeant hauled him up and dragged him away like a ragdoll. He knows exactly what he's hoping to see. Red eyes, pale blonde hair, broad shoulders and a thin waist, a dancer's body coated in mud and leaves and dust just like him. He's waiting for it, but it just isn't showing up. The semblances of feelings he can muster up echo around in his head, he's utterly hollow.

The sound of two pairs of feet in lockstep with one another drills into his ears, van der Renne is back. He swallows before speaking, like he'd rather keep the words inside.

`The damage is more wide spread than we'd like. There were at least three explosions, possibly four.'

`Casualties?' Innes-Ker's expression is pinched, whatever van der Renne says isn't going to be good news

`Not as extensive as it could have been but the number of fatalities is. . . greater than we hoped.'

Link clenches his fist. His fingernails bite into his palm, but it feels like it's happening to someone else. Greater? Greater doesn't matter. One, just one very particular one is all it takes and the world ends.

`Mostly, the debris can be cleared but there are a few places we don't have the time for.'

Everyone grimaces, they're needed at the front, especially if the Empire is advancing quicker than they expected. Whatever, and whoever, is behind the earthen barricades they can't shift is going to be left behind. The Lord rubs a dirty hand across his eyes,

`Who is unaccounted for?'

`So far, we're missing Auvergne company and half of Oxholm company but not Sir Oxholm himself. Although, conversely, we've got Roucy company but not Roucy. Stanhope, Erskine and Thynn are deceased. Almost all of the companies are missing some men but not nearly as badly as Oxholm. And. . . also, some of the Gerudo women are unaccounted for, along with. . .' it's not usual for van der Renne to struggle getting his words out, everyone stares blankly at the silence, `along with Sir Sheik, who was riding with them. . . we found his mount but not. . . not him.'

What do people do when they're sad? He's not sure he knows anymore. Cry? Shout? Collapse to the floor and sob until they've just up every ounce of self they've got left? He's done that. There isn't anything left. He stares at all the faces looking at him. Stares at each in turn as if they'll tell him what he needs to do now. They don't, they just return his vacant, opened-mouthed look with crinkled, sad little eyes.

`Oh,' he says, to fill the silence more than anything.

Someone crouches down and lays a hand on his shoulder, `He'll be alive, seven years of Ganondorf couldn't kill him so. . . so he'll be alive.' It's not the most well-crafted comfort but it's got the weight of belief behind it.

Link hadn't even realised Estienne was there. He'd heard him walk up, watched him stand there next to van der Renne, even looked him dead in the eye and just hadn't really seen him. There's a nasty looking graze on his cheek and he's dusty and muddy and bloody just like the rest of them. He's got very green eyes. Green, not red. Link looks at the hand on his shoulder, two of the fingers are splinted together.

Innes-Ker sighs, grave and tired, `Gather who we have left, see to the dead and then we keep moving.' His jaw goes tight, `I'm sorry.'

There's an awful lot of mud, churned into squelchy, ankle-snapping patches of Goddess damned hideousness. His legs feel like jelly from having to drag himself through it. The grounds too soft for the warhorses. No one wants to watch one of the poor beast wallow, pained and broken, to its death. He slides, boots slipping in the mess they've all made. Fingers close around his forearm,

`Sir,' Anders hauls him up.

The rest of Roucy company, now his to command, is spread out around him. Imperial troops hurl themselves against the temporary barrier. He holds the Master Sword a little bit tighter. Then surges up, to stand with his men, and feels the jarring clang of a parry ring through his tired arm. His riposte finds a mark, grating into chainmail and cracking the ribs buried underneath it.

Fuck the Empire, roughly, and from behind and not in a fun way. Fuck them. All of them. What good could possible come from invading a small farming nation? What good other than forcing him to be here, knee deep in blood and mud and gore. The Emperor can go and choke down shit until he asphyxiates and dies. A fitting end to someone whose wanting comes with so little regard for human life. What about what he wants? He wants to sleep. He wants to go home. He wants to not be alone anymore, or ever again. See, he can want too. Only his wanting doesn't require anyone to die.

He tugs the company Ensign, Peters, out of the way of a hand axe, pulling them both behind the sweeping safety of his shield. Peters' eyes are huge, brown pits. He slips out from the sheltering curl of his commanding officer's arms to gut the enemy with his bollock dagger. Peters is sixteen. Link knows better than most that armour isn't really made for boys. He takes a short sword from the corpse, the dead generally have little use for weapons, and presses it into Peters' hand. Armour might not have been meant for boys but there's nothing to be done about that now and he'd rather not let Peters carry on navigating this mess with just a knife. Those massive, vacant eyes look up at him again from under tufts of dirty-blonde fringe poking out from the boy's helmet. Link's far too tired for this.

He wants to yell. Just stop and scream until he's not angry anymore. Instead he rams his plate armour covered fist into some poor foot soldiers stomach. It doesn't seem like the empire standard issue leather and chainmail body armour does much to cushion the blow. It's incredibly satisfying. He does it again. Just because he can. The soldier collapses to the mire underfoot, scrabbling his hand out to grip the ankle of Link's boot. He stamps down with his free foot. Bones crack like eggshells. He walks away, unsure if leaving the man suctioned into the mud is a cruelty or a kindness.

He hears a cry go up, feral and scratchy. The men are roaring, all of Roucy company adding their voices to the hollering. The enemy are retreating. Turning back, away from the scruffy floodplain. It lies about forty miles inside the border, a wide river, held somewhat in check by levees, makes up the eastern boundary of their little patch of the front line. Every defensive position along the line is manned by at least two companies. Link and Roucy's men share their makeshift garrison with van Lawick, Pauw and Estienne.

Link looks at the churned-up farmland around him. He scans the bodies, trying to work out if he recognises any of them. As far as he can tell they've been lucky this time. They still need to clear up though. They burn the bodies, downwind of the makeshift garrison and away from their water source. It feels callous sometimes, but a damn sight better than just leaving the poor empty shells where they fell. He rubs his eyes, leaving mud and soot swiped across his face. He's so tired.

He walks into the farmhouse that's become the hub of their new home. Estienne is sat at a table, fingers blue with ink from writing the weekly report for central command. They nod at each other before Link drags himself upstairs. He's fighting all the straps and buckles that hold his armour in place when a second pair of hands appear to help.

`Thank you.'

Van Lawick shrugs, `these things are a bastard to do by yourself.'

Link grunts in agreement. He's always surprised that a man as tall as van Lawick has such thin hands. He looks like a career soldier in every other regard. He's got wide shoulders and could probably bench press Ensign Peters if he wanted. Still, the first-time Link saw him wearing his reading glasses and with his curly hair free from its tight ponytail he'd have believed you if you'd said van Lawick was something much softer.

When they're done unfastening everything van Lawick helps him sort it into neat piles so he can start cleaning it. Technically he shouldn't have to do it himself but he doesn't feel like it's fair to ask Anders or Peters or anyone else from Roucy's company to wait on him like he was their actual Knight Commander. This doesn't mean they haven't offered. He just turned them down and doggedly dismissed them each time they tried to help. It's not very fair of him, deliberately putting up barriers as to how far he'll let himself integrate with the company, and he knows it.

`Sir Champion, how was the fray?' Pauw stumps up the stairs.

`Muddy.' Link doesn't look up from cleaning the Master Sword.

`Cut many of the bastards down?'

More creaking accompanies Estienne's head coming into view `I think you're the only one who's a big enough twat to keep count Pauw.'

`At least I've seen a twat.'

`Ah, such rapier wit, call for a medic I'm not sure I'll make it.'

`Oh fuck you Estienne.' Pauw's square face is getting ruddy with anger.

`I'd rather not, I have got some standards. Not high ones but standards nonetheless.'

Link can see van Lawick fiddling with the wedding band on his left ring finger, it's something of a nervous habit for the other knight. It's never been a secret that Pauw and Estienne don't like each other. Their arguing often it makes the farmhouse feel far too small to fit all of them in comfortably.

`I have got some standards' Pauw parrots it back in an irritating falsetto, `Goddesses you think you're so clever.'

`Wrong again Sir Shit-for-brains, I know I'm clever, I can spell you see.'

Pauw growls, visibly squaring up for the fight. Van Lawick has his lips drawn in tight line. Every day, they do this almost every day and they've been here for six weeks already. Link sets down the Master Sword, clean and oiled and back in its sheath now. He picks up his helmet and grimaces at it, there's a nasty dent that looks like it's going to have to be beaten out.

Estienne trills out `ah yes, men of little wit will resort to their fists.' He flairs his hands like a street performer, treating Pauw to an elaborate rude gesture.

`Will you please be quiet.' Link doesn't look up from inspecting the damage done to his helmet.

Estienne draws his hands back to his sides, looking embarrassed. He glances over at van Lawick who gives a sympathetic shrug.

`Heh,' Pauw's smile is as smug as it is wide, `exactly Sir Champion, the world's better off without his idiotic griping.'

`I meant both of you.'

Pauw's expression turns sour. He stands there looking like the room suddenly started smelling terrible for a while before stumping back down stairs. The front door slams shortly afterwards.

`I need to take my breast plate to be mended I can take that as well if you'd like,' van Lawick taps Link's helmet with a thin finger.

`Thank you, that'd be very kind.' Link lets the tall man take it out of his hands. They both know he's really going to go and calm Pauw down.

Estienne and Link stand in silence as van Lawick fetches his own piece of broken armour and then descends the stairs. Link rubs his eyes. They feel gritty and heavy. He knows blue-grey bags are settling in beneath them. He hates being alone. It's not a mantle he wears well, and it weighs so heavily on him. It's a small blessing, he supposes, that it leaves him too exhausted to feel.

`I'll finish this, get some sleep. . . well, try to at least.' Estienne takes the polishing cloth out of his hands, `I'll wake you when there's something to eat.'

Link looks at him, letting his shoulders tumble inwards, `thank you.'

* * *

I genuinely think Link taking the Master Sword to war is just the dumbest decision on my part but what's done is done . . . ah well. . .  
See you in a couple of weeks, Freckles


	8. Chapter 8

I'm going to hazard a guess that if you've got this far you largely know what you're in for. There are similar content warnings to last chapter folks so batten down your metaphorical hatches if that's what you need to do and plough on friend.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

A flick of the wrist is all he needs. It's a reflex, he remembers Impa drilling it into him. A split second to tell friend from foe and less again to make the throw. He's far enough away, thankfully, to not hear the gurgle when the knife sinks into the Imperial soldier's neck. They hadn't even had the chance to begin descending down the bank. Clearly the Empire doesn't believe in coifs. Aylin gives him a look as he leans back into the protection of her shield as another volley of arrows arcs down.

He runs his fingertips over his torso, finding all the places he's hidden blades. He can hear the thwack of bow strings as the Gerudo return fire. Achingly precise with their elegant, ornamented recurve bows. As Kelebek told him once, pretty never has to mean less deadly. He adds more of his knives in with their arrows. Bodies clatter down the bank, landing heavy and loud on the compacted earth of the road at the bottom.

Sterren shifts, restless, underneath him. He slips out of the saddle. Aylin calls out to him,

`Sheik, no, what are you doing? They are almost-'

`I fight better on my own feet.'

They can do more damage separately. He has no worries about Sterren being able to handle a fight by himself, it's nothing new to either of them. The Empire's foot soldiers have made it to the road now. Sheik stands steady, keeping his hands held out, free and ready at his sides. Most of the throwing knives strapped to his forearms are gone now. He has more, around his calves and at the small of his back. There's a folded steel dagger on his right thigh and a butterfly knife tucked against his chest under his left arm.

He looks so defenceless though. Standing, hands empty, not wearing the severe steel Hylian armour nor the bright, gold and green Gerudo armour. His black and midnight blue bodysuit, hidden beneath his dust-coloured travel jacket, looks flimsy in comparison. It takes a keener eye than most to make out the thousands of tiny lacquered ceramic hexagonal plates stitched into it. It's plenty strong enough to make it through a fight though, just like he is.

The first soldier finds him. He can see the quirk of a smile flicker over the man's face. He bends backwards, letting the short sword pass above him before dropping to a one-legged squat, bracing himself with both hands on the ground, and kicking his other leg out. He hooks a foot around the soldier's ankle and jerks it back towards himself. Weighty armour and the shock of the sudden movement mean the man goes down like a sack of flour. Sheik surges towards him and breaks him neck.

He catches the next blade on the back of his forearm, the metal making an awful screeching noise against the ceramic. He lets it slide, twisting at the waist as it sails passed. He showed Link how to do this once, a long time ago, telling him how to use space, or the lack of it, against someone. He curls his free hand behind him, slick, thin fingers pulling a knife almost out of thin air. He whips it, with aggressive force, up and out and into flesh. Burying it deep into his attacker's femoral artery, left desperately vulnerable beneath his hauberk, and then pulling it swiftly out again.

He's breathing heavily, utterly thankful he can concentrate on trying to regulate the heaving of his chest. He has absolute faith in everything Impa ever taught him, and absolute faith that every single movement has been hammered into muscle memory. He follows the flow of people around him. Sliding between the bodies pushing and swelling around him. Someone stumbles towards him so he braces his hands on their shoulders and pushes up into a handspring. He lets go at the apex and jack-knifes to land directly behind the body he just jumped over.

No one in the Hylian army wears a sallet. His hand reaches for the dagger on his thigh, before he can draw it an elbow rockets backwards into his jaw. He can feel the clack of his teeth all the way through his head. The iron taste of blood trickles over his tongue, it feels like he's bitten part of the inside of his cheek off. Blood dribbles over his lip. His fingers close around the hilt of the dagger. He ducks another clumsy backwards blow, lashing out and stabbing into the weak point in the foot soldier's underarm. He hears the man howl. Sheik ebbs away, out of reach of wild limbs.

There are fewer of them now. The mass of people thinning out. He can see more Hylians than Imperial men. They're winning? They're winning. His face hurts. He spits bloodily, staining the earth even more. His heart is thundering and it feels like his lungs are trying to suck in all the air in a mile radius. He can see Aylin, shining, sweaty, dirty and proud on her horse. The Gerudo are mercifully easy to spot, so bright against the dull grey of everyone else.

The adrenalin is letting him down. It's fever-pitch hum in his head is getting quiet. The real world, not the over-saturated, hyper-focussed, slow-motion battle world, starts to bleed into what he can see. It's not a nice thing to look at. There's viscera mixed into the dust. The dull grey of his travel jacket is tinged brown-red in places. In between metallic clashes and the thudding of feet are little whimpers and gurgles and last breathes. His muscles feel tight, complaining about the ways he's had to contort himself to get through this.

He feels like he's been wound up too tight. There's an odd dull buzzing in his fingers, like the blood flowing to his fingertips is fizzy. He just wants this to be over. He needs to know everyone is safe. To find each of the Gerudo, to see them, maybe a little scraped up but okay. He wants to be able to lean against Sterren, feel the solid warmth under his cheek and know they're both alright. He wants to curl his shaking fingers around Link's. He wants to push mussed blonde bangs out of very, very blue eyes. He wants to be held, with his face buried into a familiar broad shoulder, and told it's over now.

He wants. He wants keenly, sharply, and with a fury that tells him how scared he really is. He grips his dagger that little bit tighter, digging his own nails into his palm. He pivots, graceful, and explodes towards the head of the marching line. A lonely, straggling Imperial soldier stands obnoxiously in the way. He doesn't break stride, just dodges and goes for the throat.

Thunder.

Hot.

Noise.

Can't see.

More thunder.

Pain.

Hot.

Ringing.

No ground.

Too much ground.

Pain.

Can't see.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Won't stop.

Ringing.

Can't see.

Can't hear.

Pain.

Dust.

Pain.

Someone is shaking him. White hot, urgent pain shudders through him. Too much. It's too much, he can't, he doesn't want this. They won't stop. It hurts too much. He wants to go back to whatever came before the pain and the shaking. His lungs are clearly in on it with the shaking person, suddenly sending him into wracking, convulsive, barking coughs. The hands that had been shaking him tug him over onto his side. They pat weakly at his back, not really helping him get anything up and out of his airways.

He opens his eyes, bleary and streaming a little from the coughing fit. The road doesn't exist anymore. Nothing exists anymore. Bits of earth and tree and people and horse are jumbled together like they'd all just be thrown down the stairs. Everything has been stained muddy grey-brown by dust. Even his own hands don't look like his. They look shaky and so much paler than their usual golden-brown tan.

`Sheik' somebody coughs his name behind him.

Turning to look over his shoulder makes him hiss, his battered body unwilling to move. Her face is coated in dirt and bits of leaves and something has scored a nasty looking cut into her cheek.

`Jamila,' his voice is raspy, he winces as he pulls himself up onto his knees, 'I don't. . . what happened?'

`They blew us up, the bastards they. . . they. . .'

He reaches out, fingers hovering over the cut on her face. He can see bits of grit stuck in it. They need to clean it. It'll only stand to make things worse later if they let it heal around them.

`Is it bad?' She looks genuinely frightened, her own fingers coming up to rest on her cheek just below the gently bleeding slice.

He blinks at her, so lost in worrying about infections that he almost missed the question. `No. . .no, not at all, I mean, it might scar but. . .'

She smiles wanly, `That's. . . that's okay, then I will match the Captain ey?'

They sit, in the middle of absolute bedlam, slowly letting the shock fall away. Later on, when he remembers this, he's a bit ashamed of himself for sitting there, dumbfounded, for quite so long. When his mind starts to come back to him he becomes acutely aware of the litany of pained noises around them. He stands up, awkward and uncoordinated, and immediately falls back down on his arse. Angry, gnashing pain shouts at him. His right leg refusing to take any weight.

`Motherfucking-' he growls at himself.

Jamila struggles finding her balance, wobbling precariously as she gets to her feet, but manages to stay upright. She holds a hand out for him. He grips it, slightly too tightly, and hauls himself up, putting his whole bodyweight on only the one leg. He leans against Jamila, tucked carefully against her side again. He wishes it was under circumstances much more like the first time though.

`Can you walk?'

`I don't. . . I guess the only thing we can do is find out.'

They start moving, shuffling excruciatingly slowly over the wrecked terrain. It hurts. Every stumbling step teeters on the brink of unbearable. There have to be others out here just like them. Dragging almost broken bodies over rubble and detritus. Carefully not looking too closely at things that had probably been people before the explosion. Please Goddesses don't let them be the only ones trying to find their way out of this.

They walk away from the epicentre, away from where the road had been. There's a few hundreds of metres worth of blast shattered land to cross before the woods start looking relatively intact again. Tree cover is good. They can find somewhere to hunker down and take proper inventory of their collected injuries. He's hoping they can find something, anything, to sort out Jamila's face with. They limp passed the first trees that are still standing. Both of them let go of breaths they hadn't known they'd been holding in. They're not out in the open anymore, they're not necessarily safe, but they are safer.

Something shrill and hysterical sounding assaults them. They turn towards the noise, they've got no chance of fighting anything off in the state they're in. A tall, dirty, bruised and burnt Kelebek is shambling towards them. She reaches out for Jamila, taking her face in her hands. He doesn't know enough Gerudo to understand what they're saying to each other. He recognises the expressions and feeling behind them though. He's seen Link come out of some Goddess damned pit battered, bleeding and barely still there enough times to know how they feel. He ducks out from under Jamila's arm and give them some space.

Other pale, damaged faces start appearing between the trees. He sees some of the other Gerudo, but not all of them, and a few of the Hylian soldier's faces are familiar but not ones he can put names to. A huge, absurdly bushy moustache wibbles its way towards him. Of all the things, of all the piss poor excuses for things, to come though this miraculously unscathed it would be Roucy's moustache. The knight himself is as dusty as the rest of them which only makes his furiously orange facial hair seem that much brighter.

`Good show my lad,' he claps Sheik on the arm with a lot less vigour than usual.

`You too Sir Roucy.'

`Damn fine pickle we're in if I do say so myself.'

Yes, a pickle, this is definitely a classic, textbook example of a pickle. It's also a fabulous example of a gross understatement but Sheik's willing to let it slide.

`How many?'

`Beg pardon lad?'

`How many are here? How many have we found?'

`Oh, well, not. . . not all. . . well, less than we'd like, you see. Got some of Oxholm's men, a few of the Gerudo, me, and. . . and well, you lad. That's, that's it. I did. . . I did see Auvergne and his company but, well, they'll not be coming with us if you catch my drift.'

`That's it?' Sheik grips Roucy's arm. That's barely anyone. A whole army was marching here and all they've got is a handful of people and dead company. Where's Link? Where's Aylin. Where's anyone, everyone? They can't. . . they're not. . . it's not. . . Link's not. . . He feels his stomach turn. Seven years, seven awful Goddess damned years they got through. Seven fucking years. Please, Naryu, Farore, Din, anyone, please don't let mere seconds have undone so many years of surviving.

An infantry man lumbers up to Sir Roucy, `There ain't any way 'round sir, it's piled higher than a ship full of sailors outside a whorehouse.'

`Buggery.' Roucy pulls a face like someone just made him lick a lemon.

`What's this?' Sheik looks between the knight and the soldier.

The infantry man stares back at him, it's not a particularly kind look, `what d'you think? We've got all this fuckin' shit tip betwixt us an' the rest of the army and there ain't no way we're getting the fuck 'round it.' He turns to Roucy, `so, what now sir?'

`We don't stay here that's what. If we head towards the front we should eventually meet up with the main army. There's few enough of us that we can probably avoid any Imperial troops as long as we're careful.' Sheik states glumly. It's better than staying put at least, waiting for someone to come and find them when that someone will probably be the Empire, `we should move off as soon as we can.'

`Oi, the fuck d'you think you're doing, ordering us ab-'

`Saving our lives I imagine. You heard the man Cooper, let's be off.'

He could kiss Roucy, maybe only if he was quite drunk and didn't think too hard about the moustache, but still.


	9. Chapter 9

There's some significant arseholery, as in some people are genuinely colossal shite-larks, in this one guys and you have my endless apologies if it makes anyone uncomfortable. Anyways, forge ahead if you'd like to and I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

He's beginning to wonder if anyone but him knows anything about moving quietly. Every footfall behind him sounds like someone stamping enthusiastically on a pile of dried twigs. Every footfall behind him is, in fact, someone attempting to step gingerly on a pile of dried twigs. He's told them probably too many times that if you want to move quietly you need to use the outside edges of your feet. Heel down first and roll smoothly down to the toes. Fucking morons. He's being unfair and he knows it. All of them are injured and many to the extent that any kind of walking motion is an excruciating experience. Hells, even he's got a splint strapped to his right leg and has to bite down the rippling fiery ache that spreads up to his hip with each step. It's just frustrating, pain and fear plucking his nerves to a tune he'd rather not dance along with.

He just wishes they'd listen to him. Just once. That would be enough. Instead everything has to go through Roucy. Who readily admits he's not the one who knows about moving safely undetected through hostile territory. To be honest Sheik wishes he didn't know as much as he does about it. It's not like he made a particular effort to learn, but necessity, cultural heritage and plenty of practice have got him here. They'd also possibly be dead by now if he didn't know what he was doing. As it turns out, subtlety is not something the Hylian army excels at.

They were lucky that the blast did such a good job of coating everyone and everything in a clinging layer of muddy dust. Glinting bright steel isn't something you often see in the middle of a forest so much so that even the least eagle-eyed of Imperial soldiers probably would have spotted them. He'd still had a job to convince people to add even more grim to their armour instead of clean it off. Even then they'd had to leave some of the Gerudo's bright, beautiful things behind. They hadn't been happy about it but at least they'd come around to his point faster than the others.

He's dreading the moment they have to make a dash across any open ground. Moving around like this is heart-in-his-mouth scary by himself when he's got no one else to worry about. Having to worry about just this hand full of people's lives is putting a permanent flutter in his stomach and an ache at the base of his skull. He's so tired. He's not slept at all since the explosion, it's coming up to almost three days now. The longest he's ever gone without sleep before is nine days, back in Kakariko when that. . . thing came out of the well and he thought Link wasn't going to. . . to come back to him. He really, really, doesn't want to have to do that again.

At least being tired is something else he's had to get good at. He's familiar with how it slows his mind down. He knows which faculties fail him first and which ones he can do without so that others last a little longer. He knows he looks like crap. Huge, dark, puffy circles weighing down the skin under his eyes. He's got big, ugly purple-yellow bruises all up the right side of his chest to match. He's in a fucking state, they're all in a fucking state. He just wants to curl up and go to sleep but he's never going to get the chance. Even if he did he wouldn't be able to get any rest anyway, not alone, not by himself. Not without the solid, weighty warmth of another body next to him. Not without Link.

The trees are starting to thin out, he glares at them like somehow that'll make them move closer together. Someone treads on a branch behind him and he winces. He hears Roucy breath in sharply out of shock next to him. They give one another a look, one apologetic and the other too tired to be properly irritated. They keep creeping forward, the wide-trunked oaks and speckle-barked birches giving way to smaller saplings and large shrubs. The slow loss of cover is making Sheik uncomfortable.

Roucy pats him on the shoulder to catch his attention. The older knight points ahead. Visible through the increasingly large gaps in the forest is a small laid hedge. Sheik curses under his breath. Stumbling into farmland is not what they need right now. He holds a hand out, open palmed, behind him. The ever present scrunching doesn't stop. He takes a deep breath and looks at Roucy who performs the exact same gesture and the entire party halts. If he had the energy to spare he'd hate them a little bit.

He signs stay put to the group and prays they'll behave just this once. It's blissful, moving soundlessly by himself even if it's only for a hundred meters or so. The closer he gets the more he can see it's exactly what he doesn't want. Neatly partitioned fields, flat and open ripple out from the other side of the little living hedge.

`Fuck.'

He lets himself says it out loud, just barely audible, to the bushes and scrub. Thankfully the fields all seem to be empty, even though they look to be the kind of pastures that would be perfect for cows or sheep. The worst part, or maybe best he's not sure yet, is that slap-bang in the middle of the arable land is a village. Big enough that his immediate thoughts are that they might be able to get hold of some better medical supplies there. That or get found, caught and killed all in one afternoon. His headache decides now is its time to shine. He grimaces and turns to head back to the others.

`So?' Roucy asks as soon as he's in whispershot.

`Farmland. . . and a village.'

`A village sir? How big?' Cooper addresses Roucy who simply looks to Sheik to provide more information.

`Not huge, probably just farming folk. I couldn't see any Imperial soldiers but I wasn't close enough really.'

`Do we risk it? Goddesses know we need some food my boy.' The, now somewhat grubby, bristly end of Roucy's moustache is being tugged thoughtfully.

`We need bandages too,' Kelebek adds quietly from where she's sat holding Jamila up, `and clean water.'

`What if they turn us in? We don't know nothing about 'em, what if they've gone an' sided with the Imperial shitbags?' Cooper's shoulders are raised like dog would raise its hackles, `I say we stay the fuck away from 'em.'

`Oh, so you'd rather we all bleed and starve to death ey? Or catch an infection so we can all rot' Kelebek hisses back.

`I'm not gunna fuckin' die just cause you and your mud-skin girlfriend want a fuckin' drink.'

Kelebek's nostrils flare, she spits out something it's probably good none of the Hylians can understand. The tone is enough to convey the general meaning though and Cooper's expression twists into an ugly, gnarled caricature of anger.

`Listen here bitch, I'm gunna break every fuckin' tooth in your mouth, pull out your tongue and piss on it alright?'

`Do that and I'll have you court marshalled, assaulting another soldier can be a hanging offence Cooper, you know that as well as I do.' Sheik stares him down.

`Ain't no judge in the land that'll listen to a red-eye traitor like you.'

There it is, centuries later, actions he'd never even been part of held against him like he orchestrated the whole catastrophe. But, who else is there left to blame when so many of his people live in hiding, denying who and what they are? There are so few left that openly admit to being Sheikah that he's grown up being called the last of his kind. He almost believes it's true sometimes.

`Cooper, say anything like that ever again and I'll have you say it once more in front of Lady Impa.' Roucy has never sounded so cold. It's honestly frightening to see a truly kind man look so pointedly angry.

Cooper stays silent. There isn't a soldier in the Hylian army that isn't at least a little afraid of Impa. Every single one of them steps out of basic training absolutely certain she's the master of their fates and desperate to make her proud of them. Repeating a slur against her kind in front of her is a recipe for dishonourable discharge at best or, far more likely, imprisonment.

`If, for one Goddess forsaken second, you or anyone else thinks there is any reason we're still alive other than Sir Sheik being here then you are bigger morons than I ever thought you to be.' The deliberate forceful use of Sheik's title makes Cooper shrink away from them. `Now, we're going to go and see if we can find medical supplies before we all die regardless and if anyone objects they can bloody well sort themselves out.'

No one stays behind. They creep towards the village, getting as close as they can without leaving the shelter of the tree cover. There's a barn about two hundred and fifty meters away from where they're all crouched in between some scraggly bushes. Sheik hobble-sprints across the gap and squats down, hugging the wooden wall of the barn. He tries to ignore how much his leg hates him for this. A rangy, freckled soldier he doesn't know the name of joins him and they shimmy around the barn's back corner. There's no one there. They crawl towards the front of the barn and closer to the village. Freckly soldier makes to lean around the last corner when they hear the barn doors close. Sheik yanks him back away from the edge.

They're lying there in a disorganised heap trying not to make a sound, hoping beyond hope that no one comes around the corner. Hoping isn't enough apparently. They watch worn leather slippers come into view. Glancing up gifts them the sight of a pale, wheat-coloured woman in a dress that doesn't fit. She couldn't have walked passed them without noticing. Well, no, she could have, if they'd stayed still and quiet but the awkward way they landed has dislodged one of Sheik's few remaining throwing knives. It clunks obnoxiously loudly on the ground.

She squeaks when she sees them on the floor. Bringing a hand up to her mouth. They scramble to a crouch, empty hands raised to show they mean no harm. She looks down at them, grubby, scrapped and nervous, and crouches, folding her skirt neatly to stop it brushing against the ground. She says something neither of them can understand but the inflection goes up at the end like a question. Sheik and Freckly soldier stare blankly by way of reply. She frowns, thinking to herself, and then points at the just visible emblem on Freckly soldier's arm,

`Hylian yes?' She says in accented Hylian this time

`Yes,' Sheik nods tentatively.

`You are by own?' She gestures to the two of them, head cocked to the side.

They don't answer, unsure if telling the truth will just end up with all of them dead. She makes another face, opens her mouth to says something and then changes her mind. She smooths her skirt before trying again,

`You are help, so I will help. If are. . .if there are other Hylian, I will help also them.' She smiles at them.

Freckly soldier looks at Sheik. Please Goddesses let this work out okay. He takes a breath and lowers his hands,

`Are there Imperial soldiers here?'

She wrinkles her nose when he mentions the Empire, `They come, not always, you perhaps fight with them?'

`We can't fight, we are injured' he gingerly touches his splinted leg, `we need medicine, bandages, food-'

She cuts him off, `yes, we have of them some, come and I will help.' She stands up and beckons for them to follow her.

`Wait, wait please, there are others,' blurts Freckly soldier.

`Others? Do they also have of medicine need? Perhaps you bring also them?'

Sheik sighs and nods, they track back around the barn until they're in view of the rest of the party. Freckly soldier signs the all clear and one by one the others start to make their away to the barn. Eventually all of them are standing in a rough semi-circle around the woman. She gives them all a once over before leading them away from the barn. She stops before every corner to check what's on the other side and hurries them across the larger open gaps.

Finally she knocks on a door, two quick taps and three with much longer gaps in between. The door opens all of about four inches and grey eyes under heavy brows peer through the gap. She says something to whoever's behind the door and it swings open, the man behind it stepping out of the way. They get ushered inside into a large kitchen, too big to just be a domestic one. The man eyes them, unsure, and turns to ask the woman something but she's already disappeared up a flight of stairs.

Sir Roucy coughs in to the awkward, hanging silence and turns to man. Whatever Sheik was expecting to happen is wasn't for Roucy to stick his hand out and introduce himself falteringly in the man's native language. Judging by the way the man's eyebrows ascend up his forehead, neither was he. Still, he grips Roucy's hand and says something in reply. Roucy turns back to the group at large,

`He says his name his Ciprian and the lovely lady that brought us here is his wife Ioana.'

`Can you tell him thank you?' Sheik looks between Roucy and Ciprian.

`Of course my boy, of course,'

Sheik listens carefully to what Roucy says and then does his best to mimic the soft, lilting syllables. He doesn't think he's done a good job but Ciprian holds out a hand to shake so it can't have gone that badly. Roucy says something that involves Sheik's name and Ciprian repeats it over their clasped hands.

Ioana comes back down the stairs, a large, heavy-looking wooden box in her arms. Freckly soldier hurries over and gestures to show that he'll carry it for her. She smiles at him and lets him take it even though she didn't seem to be having any trouble with it at all. He sets it down for her on the long table in the middle of the room. She opens the lid and begins to lift out a few little pots and bottles of medicine.

`Now, if you have need I can fix a little things.'

Sheik looks at her and the cheerfully determined set of her shoulders, he can't stop his lips crinkling into a smile. He does his best to say thank you to her in her own language, mostly making a hash of it again. She beams at him anyway. Even if he doesn't sleep again tonight, he might, perhaps, get some rest anyway.

* * *

I'm gunna be honest, I'm not sure I like how this chapter turned out but I couldn't work out how to fix it. . . any suggestions or constructive criticisms are welcome.  
Cheers, Freckles


	10. Chapter 10

And lo, chapter the tenth. Content wise everything is pretty par for the course so sail on good adventurer and enjoy.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

The air is thick and hot and everything feels so close. He can't breathe. He holds his arms out either side of himself, fingertips straining to find cool stone to help ground himself. Nothing's there. His hands wave aimless and lost in black, empty space. There's nothing there but the dark is so syrupy thick it feels like the walls he can't find are pressing in on him. He hates the dark. Hates it just like it hates him too.

His back is wet, clammy fear sweat running down it in little dribbles that he's ashamed of. He reaches out again, desperately pawing the air that shouldn't feel this tangible. It's heavy and sharp and hurts when he breaths it in. He can feel it settle in the bottom of his lungs, swilling around, filling up his bronchioles and weighing down his diaphragm. The more he gasps the quicker it fills up and the more he tries to choke down real air. The cycle repeating and repeating and repeating and repeating ad nauseam.

There isn't any real air. Not here. Never was and never will be. Not with the crushing weight of thousands and thousands of gallons of water above him. Not with the sand closing in around him, spilling into everything and counting down the seconds he's got left. Not with the white-hot heat blistering his skin. Not with the constant fear that the blue in his fingers will turn dead-flesh black. Not with the darkness that blurs his vision and makes him see things that aren't real.

He wrecks himself against it. Throwing himself bodily upon the dark like a boat trying to fight a tempest. He's breaking up, already rudderless and with his sail in tatters. The harder he fights it the more viciously it rakes back at him. Thunderclaps rattle his keel. The lightning flashes show him things he doesn't want to see. His wood creaks and whimpers, begging the darkness to come back. The searing jabs of light come faster and faster. He sees the beautiful, slightly crooked, arch of a nose marred by the thick trail of blood leaking from the nostril. The perfect curve of a cheekbone ruined by the sickly pale skin stretched over it. Delicate fingers mashed down to the bone. A lithe body twisted into shapes too crumpled and angular to look at.

He howls through the ragged holes in the remains of his sailcloth. The crack and boom of the tempest drowns out his reedy wailing. Now there's blonde hair matted and browned and clinging to the edges of a hole that wasn't there before. There's peerless skin charred and blistered and fragile. There are eyes, glassy red, staring and staring and staring at him. He can't reach them. Neither his boom nor his bowsprit can stretch to cradle the awful broken bundle.

His stomach revolts. He capsizes, rolling onto his side, and throws up all the water he's taken on board. Bleary eyes stare at the small puddle of bile on the floor next to him. It's seeping into a corner of the blanket that was unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He groans and rolls onto his back again. He follows the woodgrain of the bedframe above him with his eyes. Focussing on something dully real until his heart slows down a bit. He feels like shit and falling out of bed hasn't helped a great deal either. So much for trying to get some rest.

Link sits up, bruised back unimpressed by the motion. He grabs a discarded shirt and mops up the vomit before it ruins the blanket even more. He feels like a kid that's wet the bed when they're too old to still be doing it. He'll have to find time to clean the shirt and the blanket when Estienne, Pauw and van Lawick won't notice. He can feel himself start to blush even though none of them are even here to see what's happened. He pushes the shirt under the bed, out of sight and mind for the moment. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Broken and stupid and useless. . .and alone. . . so fucking alone.

Someone taps on the door. Link makes a gentle come in noise and then does it again, louder, when the door doesn't open the first time. Estienne pokes his head into the room. Link is aware he probably looks like a state. Sitting on the floor, his blonde hair knotted and sticking up in odd places and bare chest covered in a soft, sweaty gleam. It's still embarrassing when Estienne can't stop himself from doing a double take though. Link clears his throat and looks away,

`Do you need me for something?'

`Oh, ah, no not. . .not really. . .it's just. . .' Estienne trails off and chews his lip. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him `are you. . .are you alright?'

Link opens his mouth; he hasn't actually got anything to say. He expected a bland assurance he was fine to come out but it doesn't. Estienne sits on the floor next to him, back resting against the leg of the bed.

`It's okay if you're not, you know. It's not like we are either.' He pauses, and pushes his dark hair out of his eyes. There's the ghost of a tremble making his fingertips quiver. Link hears the whooshing shush of a deep breath in and then words are coming out of Estienne, burbling and tripping over each other, `I mean, van Lawick misses his wife and daughter, Pauw's a colossal shit head that thinks stabbing things is fun and I'm. . . oh fuck me, I'm scared shitless, all the time. This is insane you know. I've . . . I've killed people . . . dead, killed them dead and . . . if . . .if it fucks me up this badly then, well, it's only fair for you to not be okay too.'

There's silence for a bit. Both men stare at their own hands. Link scrunches his eyes closed, at least someone here isn't too much of a coward to talk about these things. It's sweet really, to see someone so acerbic say something so sincere just to make him feel better. Link pats Estienne on the shoulder and fumbles for the words he wants,

`thank you Estienne, that's. . . it's. . .' he sighs and gives up, `thank you.'

`It's Léon-Honoré,' clearly the flow of confessions was harder to dam up again than either of them expected.

`What?'

`My name, it's Léon-Honoré, according to mother it's just not a proper name unless no one can spell it right on the first go. I mean, my little brother got Constantine-Amalfus so it could be worse but. . . well, you know. . .just, umm, just Léon will do really.'

`You've got a brother?' Link feels genuinely curious, he and Estienne have talked plenty of times since they've been stationed here but never on this personal a basis.

`A sister too, they're twins, they're the reason my family doesn't think I'm the liability at court.'

Link snorts, `What do they do?'

`Oh, well, everything I do, it's just that I've learnt to keep it on the sly around mother. . . mostly. Lilliana isn't allowed to talk to anyone when they go to the castle anymore, she told Baron Heintze-Weissenrode's son she's rather skin her own feet than spend time with him and his breath. It didn't go down well.'

They laugh, not loudly or for long but feels good nonetheless. Link leans his head back against the mattress.

`How come your sister got spared the long name treatment?'

`Oh, she didn't, she's Lilliana-Florentina, which is an anagram for a latrine flail lion according to Constantine. He gets a nonfactual mess tin and I'm her one loon.'

`You can only get kiln out of mine.'

Léon shrugs, `just because it's short doesn't mean it's any less good.'

Link sighs, shoulders heaving dramatically, `I wish I hadn't heard that before.'

Léon's laugh sounds a bit likes he's barking, it's loud and peppered with ugly snorts that just makes him laugh more. He's got one hand on his stomach and the other over his mouth as if it might quell the flow of sound coming out of it. Link's chuckling as well, more amused by how funny Léon is finding all of this than by what he just said.

`I'm sure Sir Sheik is amply satisfied by your anatomy,' Léon pushes his hair away from his eyes again and catches a few laughter tears with the heel of his hand.

Link's face falls. His lips set into a tight line, all the things he saw in the lightning flashes in his nightmare wriggle their way back into his mind. The change in his expression doesn't go unnoticed.

`Oh Goddesses, I'm sorry that was. . . that was uncouth I didn't mean to-'

Link cuts in, not wanting to listen to Léon desperately trying to cover his tracks, `it's alright I just. . . I'm. . . not good at being without him.' He can't look at the other man, can't quite hold his concerned green gaze. `How. . . how did you know that we. . . that we're. . . you know,' he makes a vague gesture that doesn't really clear anything up.

`Not everyone believes it's impossible for two men to be in love with one another.' Léon smiles at him, it's still his knife sharp smile but it seems kinder now than the first-time Link saw it. `He'll be alive, I'd bet everything I have on it.'

A muffled `food' is hollered up from downstairs. Léon claps his hands on his thighs before standing up and holding a hand out to pull Link up. Once he's got his feet under him Link finds his least dirty shirt and pulls it over his head. He follows Léon out of the room, his armour is still lying out, perfectly clean now, on the table in big space at the top of the stairs. Pauw gives them an odd look as they come down the stairs, staring at Link's dishevelled hair for longer than strictly necessary.

There's a map stretched out on the dining table, held down at the corners by random bits of cutlery and cups. Anders is ladling brown stew into bowls and giving them to van Lawick to hand out. Link takes his, cupping it in his hands and enjoying the warmth. He gets passed a spoon and starts eating, the food helping to bring him close to feeling normal. Everyone gave up on waiting for everyone else to start eating a while ago. Pauw's sergeant, Dubois, taps the map with a knuckle.

`So, van der Renne and his lot think that there's a camp of them Imperial buggers around about here.'

`No wonder we've been seeing so much of them then.' Anders leans over Dubois' shoulder to get a better look.

Pauw talks around a mouthful of stew, `can we run them out? Does van der Renne know how big the camp is?'

`Not too many more of them than there are of us apparently, sir.'

Pauw nods, `well then, it's simple, we go in and burn the bastards to the ground.'

There's a few nods and murmurs of agreement around the room. Link looks between Léon and van Lawick, neither of them look keen on the idea. Pauw carries on, picking up momentum from the room.

`I say we gut them in their sleep, and strike now, while the iron's hot and before they realise we've got their number.'

Link sighs, `No, not yet, we go based on a rough location and barely even an estimate of the numbers and we all die.'

Pauw frowns at him, `with all due respect sir Champion I think we're more than a match-'

`We should at least wait for a new moon, the less light the better for hiding four whole companies.' Léon interrupts Pauw, completely ignoring what he'd been trying to say. `That would give us what, almost a week and half to get a better idea of how big the camp is?'

Anders nods, `there or there abouts sir.'

`Well then,' Link puts his bowl down on the table, `wait for the new moon it is. Dubois, if you hear anything more from van der Renne company inform one of us immediately.'

The sergeant nods and everyone turns their attention to eating. A comfortable buzz of chatter picks up making the room feel a little homelier. Pauw's thick eyebrows are drawn together, he's staring down at the map like it might suddenly tell him something new. He lifts his gaze and stares at Link, lips pressed together in a thin line. He wrinkles his nose as Léon makes Link and van Lawick laugh before setting his bowl on the dresser and walking out the back door into the farmyard beyond.

It's Goddess damned dark but they've been out in it long enough for their eyes to have adjusted to it. It's not as if Link hasn't been in darker places before either, something he has to keep reminding himself every time he almost makes a misstep. So far they've managed to make it up the rocky bluff without too much going wrong which is a feat for an entire company of men. Though, the occasional skitter of stones puts his back up until he reminds himself what caused it. All things willing, on the other side of the rise should be the Imperial camp.

He's hoping that the other companies are managing just as well with their approaches. Pauw, van Lawick and their men should be getting into position to the east while Léon's company are circling the long way around and coming in from the west. A lot of him wants having all four companies here to turn out to be over kill but it's the sort of thing they'll never know for sure until the attack begins. The scouting company did try and get a better estimate of the size of the camp and as of about five days ago it was at most a half a legion. Two thousand five hundred men to their one thousand. Doable with the element of surprise. He's fought at worse odds before. Goddesses they better not fuck this up.

He's moving at more of a crouch as they closer and closer to the top of the ridge. He throws up a hand signal telling the men to keep low as well. The gesture ripples back through the ranks, each man passing it on so it carries through the company despite the gloom. He stops just short of the peak, Anders squatting next to him. He holds up the signal for the men to stay put and waits for it to propagate all the way back. Link and Anders shuffle forwards, as low as possible, until they can peer over the top of the bluff.

`Din's teeth' Link's stomach drops.

The camp sprawls in the lee of the bluff. It's huge. Far, far bigger than they expected. There are enough tents for at least an entire legion. Five thousand, maybe more if there are special units amongst them. He looks at Anders, his face is pale in the darkness, he shakes his head gently.

`Do we fall back sir?'

`At five to one we do. Who runs fast, we need to tell the other companies?'

`Oh hells.' Anders has gone even paler.

Link's eyes immediately go down to the camp. It's Pauw. Of course its fucking Pauw. Even if things were as they expected it's too early. The Goddess damned idiot and his company are advancing into the camp. Something bright flares into existence. The newly lit torch flame sputters in the breeze. Please Goddesses no. No one is that pathologically dramatic right? As it turns out Pauw is, he thrusts the lit torch against the canvas of the nearest tent. The whole company roars when it catches.

`Pauw you twat.' Link spits as he scrambles up, both him and Anders skidding back down to the rest of the company.

The amount of noise below them is growing.

`On me men, advance.' Link doesn't bother with hand signals, there's no point now, any need for subtlety died when Pauw decided to take up arson.

They pour over the ridge. He can see van Lawick's company desperately trying to catch up to Pauw's and protect them from the back. He remembers the images of his beautiful Sheik bloody and wrecked from his nightmares. They swim and shift and suddenly thin artist's hands are cradling his own marred and broken body.

`I'm sorry kitten. I'm so sorry.'


	11. Chapter 11

Kinda early this week but that's not necessarily a bad thing. It's a somewhat more sedate offering this time around, with a new POV and everything. I hope you enjoy it, I had fun writing this one.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

It takes an hour and a half and both her lady's maids to dress her in her full state regalia. Helen and Domitila, who have been her lady's maids since the beginning of the Hylian restoration, call it her onion dress because as simple as it looks it has more layers than any outfit really ought to. Zelda's least favourite part of the whole ordeal is fighting her way into the quite severe underwear she has to wear under it. All three of them frequently ask the Goddesses to shower misfortune on whoever decided that women can only have visible lumps in places men find aesthetically pleasing. She stands as still as she can while Helen laces and straps her in.

The sounds of one of the kitchen staff pumping water up from the well in the courtyard outside drift through the open window. She ought, as she often gets told by the palace housekeeper, to move into the monarch's chambers that stretch almost the full length of the second floor of the palace. She won't though, as daft as it sounds, to Zelda those are still her parent's rooms so instead she stays here in the room she's had since she was a girl.

It's familiar. It's safe. It doesn't feel so yawningly empty when she's in it on her own. She likes that it's above the kitchen courtyard and gardens because she gotten pretty good at working out what's for breakfast just from the smells that waft up in the morning. She likes that her mother let her have two huge floor to ceiling bookcases fitted and fill them with whichever books she wanted. Most of them have perilously cracked spines now and fall open, unprompted, to favourite chapters and paragraphs. There are sketches and messy, quick watercolour paintings hung on the walls. Some of the gardens around the palace and places further away. Some of the guards and servants and gardeners. There's one of her, and her parents, one of Link and one of Sheik. Each and every picture has a hasty Sheikah eye with an S beneath scribbled in the corner.

Domitila helps her step into the underskirt of her dress, patting it until it lies smooth. The actual dress is made from pale pink duchess satin and has a run of tiny, fabric covered buttons down the back that take an age to fasten. Two sets of nimble fingers set to work doing the buttons up, Helen starting from the top and Domitila at the bottom. They race, seeing who can get to the middle quickest, Helen eventually huffing in triumph. Domitila sighs and carries on doggedly, taking her time a little bit more now she's already lost. At least the pink silk chemise that went over the top required less effort.

They lift her ornate gold pauldrons over her head and fasten the yolk across her chest. The whole thing looks heavier than it really is. It was designed for show after all and Zelda is ninety percent sure it would be absolutely useless in a fight. Still, what weight it does have took some getting used to but it's been a while since it left her shoulders aching and sore. She sits through having her hair brushed and pinned and set so that her circlet looks like it's staying put all of its own accord. Her belt, gloves, shoes and the pennant embroidered with the royal crest go on last. An hour and a half to go from bed clothes, toast and jam and a well-thumbed book to a queen standing in a child's old room.

She sighs and smiles at Helen and Domitila as they leave. She perches on a chair, wishing her outfits was more conducive to curling up on the bed, and reaches for a book. It's not even the same book she was reading before but it doesn't really matter. All of the ones in this room have been read so many times that she can pick any of them up, open it to any page and know exactly where in the story she is. She quite like to read them to someone the way her mother used to read to her, with different voices for every character and a quiver in her voice at the sad bits.

Willem, her chief of staff, taps on the door before letting himself in.

`My lady, the receiving room is ready if you'd like to make your way across.'

She sets down the book, not bothering to mark the page, `Thank you Willem, let's be away then.'

He holds out an arm for her. She takes it out of politeness more than anything else. When they were both a lot younger Willem used to give her piggy-back rides around the knot gardens or they'd race each other through the maze. He's got children of his own to run around after now.

It takes a while to get to the receiving room from her bedroom tucked away in a much quieter part of the castle. It's one of the largest rooms in the castle, ninety meters long and half that distance wide. The ceiling bows upwards and its convex arc is covered by a moulded fresco of hunting scenes. A massive circular Hylian crest sits in the dead centre, painted and gilded to make it stand out from the pale alabaster of the rest of the ceiling. Every inch of available wall space between the roof and the floor is covered by tapestries. Some are pastoral scenes, others are battles. Zelda's favourite one has always been the one of the Zora's domain, its cold blues and greens a welcome change from the earthy tones of the others.

Their shoes click over the chequered marble floors. They pass by a tasteful selection of suits of armour and plush upholstered chairs. There's a dais at the far end of the room decked out in red velvet with gold trim. Two thrones sit on it flanked by bronze lynel statues. Zelda sits in the right-hand throne, the monarch's throne. It's larger than the other and decorated with mother of pearl and gold leaf. Willem stands just behind her to her right. The left-hand throne remains doggedly empty, despite plenty of people's attempts to fill it.

Both halves of the huge oak doors open, with just one side being double the width of an ordinary door making full use of the entryway is something reserved only for visiting foreign monarchs. The entourage precedes the anticipated guests, a handful of men and women in livery filing in and lining up on either side of the doorway. His majesty King Decebal, the mountain to the north, is a surprisingly soft looking man given his moniker. His shoulders are wide but slope roundly downwards. His limbs are thick but carry a layer of fat that blurs any and all muscle definition. It's likely that as a younger man he had a strong, square jaw line but it's starting to get hidden beneath a second chin.

He walks into the room, hand in hand with his queen Sorina. She and Zelda smile at one another across the room. She has a cat like face, with wide cheek bones and big, pale eyes. She's a little taller than her husband but just as gently rounded. Falteringly someone steps into the room behind them. Zelda cranes her neck a little to catch a glimpse of them over Decebal and Sorina. It's a boy. A man, she mentally corrects herself because she looks to be about her age, perhaps a bit younger. He has shoulders as wide as Decebal but much less sloping and a face like Sorina's. Willem leans forward to whisper to her,

`I believe that's King Decebal and Queen Sorina's son Matei. . . I was. . . unaware he would be in attendance as well.'

`Ah, I see . . .' she tightens her jaw a little, eyes flicking briefly to the empty seat beside her, `well, then adjust the lunch preparations according please Willem.'

`Yes my lady.' He slips away, disappearing through a door hidden behind the drapes at the back of the dais.

She stands up as the three of them draw closes, hands held open in a gesture of welcome.

`King Decebal, Queen Sorina, such a pleasure to see you again.'

`Likewise Queen Zelda, likewise.' Decebal's smile is warm and genuine but close up it's not hard to see how tired his eyes look. `I don't believe we have ever introduced to our son,' he uses a big-palmed hand to steer Matei in front of Zelda, `this is Matei.'

He bows, possibly slightly too low for one royal meeting another, but doesn't say anything. There's a faint red tinge to the tips of his ears.

`I am very pleased to make your acquaintance Prince Matei,' She inclines her head to him before stepping down from the dais.

Sorina holds out her hands to take Zelda's, clasping them and leaning in to kiss her on each cheek. Her smiles look just as tired as her husband's. A gentle cough tells Zelda that Willem has come back and wants her attention. She turns to where he's standing, hands folded neatly behind his back.

`Lunch is ready your majesties, if you would like to follow me.'

Willem leads them out of the cavernous room, and down a short, airy hallway to the equally vast state dining room. Zelda always finds it slightly ridiculous that she has to meet visiting dignitaries in the receiving room and not directly in the dining room when they only ever spend all of about five minutes there. As pointless as it may be it is what it is and it's always been something that has languished at the bottom of her list of changes to affect.

The aggressively long table looks sad when it's only set for four people. Lit candles in delicate Goron crafted sliver-plated candelabras line the entire length of the table top regardless of the fact that only six feet of it will be in use. They all automatically find their places at the table. Zelda at the head, Decebal and Sorina to her right and Matei, facing them, to her left. Butlers pull out their chairs in eerie unison and they all sit. Sorina lays a hand on top of Zelda's leaning in a little to make conversation easier,

`Thank you, Zelda, for receiving us at such short notice.'

`It's a pleasure Sorina, no thanks is needed.'

The same robotically synchronous butlers fill everyone's wine glasses.

`I wish we were here under more. . . auspicious circumstances.' Sorina manages a tight-lipped smile before taking a sip of wine.

Decebal lays a hand on his wife's shoulder, `Things are what they are I suppose, it could be worse.'

Zelda nods, `I agree, I doubt any of us expected this to be easy.'

Food arrives, whisked in on platters and trays and in terrines. When she and Sheik were children they played at doing silver service once, begging the butlers to show them how and then dropping their precious morsels of pretend food everywhere and knocking the glasses over. She still enjoys watching them move so precisely, never getting a single stain on their white silk gloves.

`I assume you've had the most recent reports from the front?' Decebal lays down his knife and fork for a moment, looking over at Zelda.

She pauses for a moment, cutlery held awkwardly in mid-air, `yes, they are. . . less than desirable. Have they. . . has anything more been heard of the missing companies?' She clenches her jaw, teeth almost creaking. He's. . . he's fine, he's strong, he'll be alright. They both will be.

Sorina grimaces, `I'm afraid not, I'm. . . I'm sorry.'

`The only things we can do are pray and have faith that they are well. It will take more than opportunistic explosions to break Hyrule's army.'

`Here here,' Decebal raises a glass in Zelda's general direction, `the men and women of you army are tough souls, we owe them so much.'

Sorina nods as Zelda bows her head, gracefully accepting the compliment to her people. As lunch progresses they starting discussing the war in more and more detail. The initial, and worryingly rapid advance of the Empire into Decebal's lands seems to be abating now the Hylians have joined the front. Still, a swathe of land between the border and front lies stuck, beleaguered behind enemy lines. There's been a lot of talk of making a push to reclaim as much of it as they can but since the ambush on the marching line there have been worries that there isn't enough man power for it.

Dessert comes and goes as they talk about projected casualty numbers. The grim topic oddly juxtaposed against the sweet, light as air food. None of them are happy with the how the numbers are looking. The worst is how great the amount of civilian casualties appears set to become. Zelda knows how badly it hurts to watch good, hard-working, uninvolved people be ravaged by cruelties they don't deserve. It might have been eight years since Ganon was defeated but the marks he left can still be found if you know where to look.

As the postprandial brandies and teas are being carried in Matei says the first thing he's said all evening,

`I must apologise Queen Zelda, I fear I am not feeling as well as I might, I think it might be best if I retire early.' There's a blush settled across his high cheek bones that looks more like embarrassment than anything else.

`Ah, please do Prince Matei I don't wish you to be in any discomfort, if there's in anything you need please ask.'

He nods, again preferring to respond non-verbally, and stands to leave. Willem appears to show him the way to his rooms. Decebal sighs at his son's retreating figure.

`He struggles with things like this.' He picks up the tea Zelda just poured for him, `he does his best but he's just never got the hang of it.'

Zelda makes a sympathetic face, `it's not uncommon to be shy.'

`I know, it's just. . . I couldn't convince you to marry him could I?'

Sorina snorts, `I think Zelda is in need of a husband about as much as I'm in need of a sunburn.'

Zelda smiles down into her tea cup, her eyes crinkling at the corners. It feels nice, to not have to make excuses for remaining on her own.

`I know, I know,' Decebal rubs his eyes, `if ever, for whatever reason, there comes a time when you do decide to take a husband, please, at least think of him, he needs someone to look after him.'

`I will keep him in mind Decebal, I promise.' She means it, she knows it's likely at some point she'll have to produce an heir and if Matei is anything like his parents there are far worse options.

Once all the tea has been drunk Willem comes to shows Decebal and Sorina the way to their rooms. Zelda stays in the dining room a little longer, waving to the butlers to let them know it's alright to start clearing up around her. Eventually she gets up to leave as well, taking a slightly circuitous route through one of the courtyards back to her room. There's a small fountain in the centre with a small tree covered in long tendrils of yellow flowers next to it. Matei is perched on the rim of the fountain. He stands up awkwardly when he notices her, moving his hands around as if he doesn't know what to do with them.

`Good afternoon Prince Matei, I hope you are feeling better?'

`Oh, ah, yes, thank you. . . I umm. . . I lay down for a while and, ah. . . from my room. . .the tree it's. . . laburnums are lovely. . . '

She smiles at him as he turns a pronounced shade of pink, `is that what it is? A laburnum?'

`Oh, yes, sometimes they're called golden chain though. It's a member of the pea family.' He smiles at the tree and then at Zelda before he seems to realise what he's doing and starts blushing again.

`I shall have to remember that, thank you.'

There's a long pause, the trickling of the fountain counting the seconds it drags on for. She's about to break it when Matei squares his shoulders and does it instead,

`You have very nice gardens here, I was admiring them on the way in, perhaps. . . perhaps we could. . . take a walk . . . around them. . .' the momentum he'd gathered dies out the longer his sentence goes on.

It's a little painful watching him try but very heartening, `I would like that very much, although I'm afraid I don't know much about plants.'

`It's alright, I do, see,' he points at something to his left, `bear's breeches.'

`I beg your pardon?'

The colour rushes out of his face, `Oh, no! Not, not actual breeches or bears or, or. . . the plant, acanthus mollis, it gets. . . it gets called bear's breeches.'

She starts laughing, she can't help herself. Matei looks mortified, he collapses down onto the rim of the fountain again, his face in his hands, saying something to himself in his native language too quietly for Zelda to be able to catch. She sits down beside him,

`You know, I don't think a bear would be able to fit a toe in those flowers, let alone wear them as breeches.'

He looks up at her from between his fingers. She smiles, broad and kind and friendly, and finally, finally he smiles backs without turning into a beetroot. She carries on,

`I really would like to walk through the gardens with you, I enjoy learning new things.'

He lets his hands drop away from his face, `then I will endeavour not to disappoint. . . thank you, for being so kind.'

`Thank you for telling me about the laburnum,' Zelda stands up, brushing off her dress gently, `good day Matei, I've enjoyed talking with you.'

`Good day Zelda, I've enjoyed it too.'

* * *

My plant identification is only as accurate as what I googled, apologies if it's all complete rubbish.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter the twelfth, go forth; read, have a cup of tea, enjoy yourself. You deserve it for sticking with me this long, seriously, you're the best and I most certainly mean it.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

Despite the size of it it's still a crush to try and fit them all around the colossal table in Ciprian and Ioana's bakery kitchen. It's not just the stranded Hylians either, other villagers are jammed in amongst them. Everyone has their elbows pressed to their sides, squeezing themselves in so that more people can find somewhere to sit. Try as they might though there physically isn't enough room to manage it. People find themselves left standing, hovering close behind those who got seats so as to still be included. It's loud, conversations getting louder and louder as language barriers get more and more frustrating.

Sheik is pressed between Roucy and Jamila, the stoutness of the former meaning he was more or less sat in the lap of the latter. Jamila's hand is sat on the small of his back stopping him from being squeezed out of his seat altogether. Ciprian, Ioana and their son Toma are opposite them at the centre of the other side of the table. Ciprian thumps his hand on wood until the room gets to a more bearable volume. He says something that has all the Hylian troops turning to Roucy so they can understand. Sheik catches a few words, Hylian and soldiers, something about the Empire that he's certain wasn't complimentary and the words for injury and attack.

Ciprian is hardly talking quickly but it's still faster than Sheik can really keep up with. In the weeks they've been here, hidden in the roof of barn where they first met Ioana, he's been trying to get to grips with the language. Ioana patiently nudging him along, telling him new words and correcting his grammar, every time she came to re-bandage his leg. As much as he's fumbling around with it he loves trying to wrap his head around it and finding all the similarities and difference between it and his native Hylian and Sheikah.

A few of the others seem to be picking bits up here and there, common recurring words and phrases. Freckly soldier, who as it transpires is called Gael, is making a particularly conspicuous effort that may or may not have something to do with how pink he goes whenever Ioana is around. Still, her Hylian is far, far better than their attempts to learn her language and she's even begun to pick up bits and pieces of Gerudo to Kelebeks delight.

As soon as Ciprian finishes speaking Roucy translates for the Hylians, everyone grateful for his dedication to trying to woo women as a younger man,

`He's just telling them who we are and how we got here, all old news I'm afraid ladies and gents.'

Someone asks a question that Sheik doesn't understand but that gets redirected to Roucy.

`What was that?' Jamila leans forward slightly to catch Roucy's eye, her hand resting on Sheik's back making him lean forward a little as well.

`They wanted to know if more of us were going to arrive, I said no.'

Jamila nods, `well, the rest should be at front by now, ey?'

`Goddesses I hope so. It's been long enough that they should have reached it if it was still at the border and I'll be buggered if that's where it actually ended up being.' Sheik rubs his eyes, there's no way the front lines stayed that far back, them ending up here is evidence enough for that.

Ioana pauses in her translation of their conversation and speaks to Sheik deliberately not in Hylian, `"buggered" is not a polite word is it?'

`Oh, ah, umm. . . no . . . it is word. . .what I trying say. . .' utterly at a loss for how to explain his colourful turn of phrase politely with his disjointed new vocabulary he looks desperately at Roucy. `Help me Goddess damn it man.'

`Strictly speaking it's a term for anal coitus, my dear, but in this instance, I do believe Sheik meant it more in the sense of "I'll be damned"' Roucy says blandly, in both languages after the troops begged to know why the villagers all started trying not to laugh.

`That's not helping,' Sheik grumbles, letting his head fall into his hands as Jamila pats him gently on the back.

`No harm meant I assure you my boy, just trying my best to educational y'know.'

`Well, you're doing a stellar job Roucy. . . just, abso-fucking-lutely stellar.'

He can feel both people either side of him chuckling, the gently, jovial jostle coaxing a laugh out of him as well. He smiles into his hands and sits back up straight again making sure Ioana catches his lopsided apologetic smile. He takes a breath and steers the conversation back to more useful topics,

`Does any persons herein know where army doing a fight is?' It's the best Sheik can do to get his meaning across.

People turn to one another. The farmer that owns the barn shrugs, and the boy that helps at the bakery every morning looks at a woman that has to be related to him somehow. The question ripples around the room, rephrased and repeated. People make guesses based on where and when they've seen legionnaires or from what they've heard from friends and relatives in other towns. A concentrated buzz picks up towards the back of the crowd, moving forwards as people shuffle to get out of the way of someone coming forward. A very pregnant woman with a cloud of brown hair finds her way to stand beside the table,

`I don't know where the armies are but when the Imperial men came and took the things we had they made my husband carry some of it away in his cart. He said they took it all to the old Petrescu manor. They came again the month after and so on.'

`What sort of things did they take?' Roucy's fingers are tapping the table top too quickly to only be casually interested.

`Everything, anything, food and lantern oil, any weapons or tools that we had.' People start muttering, quietly angry, `they killed some of the animals as well.'

If Sheik has managed to follow what's been said then that explains the empty barn, and why in all the time they've been here he's hasn't barely ever seen the bakery oven lit. It's no surprise, given that they seem to have found themselves on the wrong side of the conflict dividing line, that the Empire has slowly been taking everything these people have. There's more than a pang of guilt wrapped up in the realisation. These people have been feeding them and giving them medicine and it's not just one or two extra mouths either.

`Where Pestres-Petsres. . .Petrescu house?' He completely ruins the pronunciation of it but he's probably been understood.

`You thinking up a plan, you've got your plan face on?' Jamila asks him while Roucy relays all the newly dredged up information to the soldiers.

`I might be. What would you say if I told you there was probably an Imperial stockpile nearby?'

`I'd say we steal what we can and burn what we can't.'

`Good, me too.' Sheik stands up, the bench forcing him to keep a slight bend in his knees, `Roucy I think this might go better if you just translate as I go.'

`Right you are, right you are.'

Sheik clears his throat, `You have shown us a great deal of kindness when kindness was what we were most in need of and when it was perhaps most trying for you to give it. The Empire has taken things that it neither deserves nor has a right to. I think that the only thing we can do, the only thing we should do, is to take it back.'

The Hylian troops get to their feet, smacking the table and hollering in agreement. Roucy has to shout the end of the last sentence to be heard over the din. The people crammed into the room start smiling. Ciprian reaches over the table to clasp Sheik's hand in his. Ioanna and Toma take his hands as well and then someone whose name he doesn't know and then another and another. Eventually he's sure he's shaken hands with everyone in the room and maybe a few people twice. Even later still the room calms down again and the practical questions start to get asked. It's exhausting but strands of a plan start to come together.

Much, much later he's sat in Ioana and Ciprian's kitchen by himself, arms wrapped around his knees. Roucy had dismissed the man hours ago and the villagers had pretty much all left before that. He'd stayed a little longer with Jamila, Kelebek, Roucy and Oxholm company's colour sergeant Maxwel trying to nail things down into a concrete plan. They hadn't really noticed when Ioana, Ciprian and Toma had all gone to bed, only an indiscriminate amount of time after the fact. When midnight came it was clear he was going to be the last man standing. The others made the dash back to the barn without him after he said he's stay behind to clear up a bit.

A wavering light comes down the stairs. Ioana stands in the doorway, a tiny candle in one hand and the other stopping a shawl falling off her shoulders. She comes to sit beside him, tucking her shawl around the both of them,

`You should sleep, your body is still mending.'

`I . . .I cannot do sleeping. . . it is. . . a lot of difficult.'

`Very difficult,' the correction is gentle, just like always.

Sheik repeats it back, rolling it around his mouth thoughtfully, `very difficult.'

Ioana nods as if he'd gotten it right all along, `I suppose not all things come easily.' She stops for a bit neither awkwardly nor out of trepidation, just a pause, a space to breathe. `Is it because of the explosion?'

`No . . . ' there aren't a lot of people he won't flat out lie to but it seems that Ioana isn't one of them, `I-I always am as this. . . but this is. . . more bad'

`You are homesick perhaps?'

`No . . . yes, my home I bring it with me to here. . . but now. . . he is. . .'

`He?' Her eyebrows pull together as she watches him turn faintly pink in the dim light. `Your home is a he that is here but not here?'

He fixes his gaze on his hands, fingers meshing together to match the nervous jitter in his stomach, `Yes.'

Ioana lets out a tiny gasp of realisation, `another soldier? A friend?'

`Yes.'

`And you do not know if he is safe?'

`No.'

`And he does not know if you are safe.'

`No. . . I. . . '

She lays her hand over his shaky, nervous ones, `we will find a way to put back together what fate took apart. . . even if it is difficult, you should try to sleep, your leg will thank you for it.'

She leads him to the living room and tugs pillows and a few blankets into a small nest that he takes little encouraging to curl up into. Sheik watches the flickery candle light ebb back up the stairs, closing his eyes once it's gone. It goes better than he expected, it's not good sleep, but it is sleep.

* * *

This one was struggle and I'm pretty sure it shows, sorry, I tried but for the life of me I couldn't make it better. . .  
Have a superb weekend, Freckles


	13. Chapter 13

Hello again, here we are at Chapter 13 all being uploaded during the spooky month, it's a sign I'm sure. As ever, my unending thanks for getting this far. Go and get yourself a cookie, you deserve it. **Please Be Aware:** This chapter contains both sword fight based bloodiness and someone displaying themselves to be just the most bigoted douche-canoe. You have my heartfelt apologies if this causes you any distress.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

It's hot. He can feel his hair matted with sweat sticking against his forehead. Bad memories of scorching sand keep fuzzing through his mind already dull from the heat and an irrational bit of him keeps worrying he'll be cooked inside his armour. He forces himself to stay present by reciting all the petty ways he wants to Goddesses to punish Pauw for this.

`May his bath water never quite be hot enough.'

Link punches an Imperial soldier back into the tent they were fighting their way out of.

`May every apple he eats be floury and tasteless.'

He skitters out of the way of a flaming tent as it collapses.

`May he suffer from cold sores at least twice a year.'

The whole camp is steadily lighting up like a solstice bonfire, the flickering light reflected and refracted by hundreds of swords.

`May his boots always squeak when he walks.'

He parries an opportunistic thrust, sliding himself up body-to-body and hilt-to-hilt with his assailant. He rakes his hob-nailed boots down the man's shin and twists their interlocked hilts, wrenching until the other is forced to let go. A knee to the stomach and a meter and a half of steel brings the encounter to an end.

`May he never find both socks,' He yells to the sky.

This is untenable. More and more Imperial men keep pouring out of tents, ones further away from the epicentre who have had time to organise themselves and throw at least some armour on. He can hear the shriek and squeal of the cavalry horses over the din as well, and the last thing they need is Imperial cavalry thundering down on them sabres drawn.

Link crashes his way through the globs and spatters of kicking, hissing, scrapping people. There are definitely Hylian bodies on the floor. He doesn't look at them. Can't look at them. Won't look at them. The noise gets him first and then something equally big but much more solid. He hits the deck, the Master sword clattering down beside not quite in reach, pinned underneath a sickeningly muscular body. The mountain man is still yelling but in the language of the Empire so it's utterly lost on him.

He jack-knifes, wriggling with every available muscle in his body. As soon as he gets an arm free his jams his hand into the big guy's face, pushing his head back and away while his fingertips poke dangerously close to the man's eye. A fist thumps into his stomach knocking all the air out of him. Link gasps and wheezes, he forces himself to keep moving and be as difficult to keep pinned down as possible.

He lets his free arm go slack, the sudden loss of resistance meaning the man's head falls forward. Link rams his metal covered forehead into the incoming bridge of the poor man's nose. Warm blood spurts onto both of their faces, thick and sticky. The man roars, arching back, clutching at his face. Link throws his torso sideways, left hand clasping around the familiar grip of the Master Sword. He thrusts forward and up, rolling out of the way as the body crumples down to the messy soil.

`May he only ever realise the milk has turned after he's used it.' It's not much of a eulogy for the dead but it'll have to do.

He needs to find van Lawick and Estienne and Pauw. . . especially Pauw. They need to sound the retreat before either the fire or the Imperial soldiers kill them all. The only logical place to look for Pauw is right in the middle of this Goddess damned mess. So, despite his better judgement telling him not to he heads towards the densest patch of flames. It's terrible and he hates it. Every single inch of his skin is sweating, and all the clothes and padding beneath his armour is wet through, clinging damply to his skin.

He hears Pauw before he sees him, hollering like a madman at the chaos around him. His heart stutters when he does see him. Pauw's large frame silhouetted by the fire, the un-Goddessly noise, the oppressive heat. . . it's too similar. . . it's all too similar. He's been here before. His legs stop. The Master Sword hangs limply at his side. Too much stuff floods into his mind. Too much, too much, too much.

`Sir Champion.' Pauw bellows at him, his sweaty, square face beaming.

They're gone, they ebb away, all the terrible too big, too loud things in his head. All it needed was a moron to yell at him to chase them away.

`Call your men to retreat Pauw, we must pull back, I have to find-'

`No.' There's a pause, they stare at each other eye to eye, `we have them on the back foot, we can win this'

`Not against an entire fucking legion we can't.' Link throws an arm out, gesturing to the vast sea of tents.

`A whole legion? There's a whole legion here?' Pauw almost sounds gleeful, eyes over bright and glassy, `the Empire will rue the day it ever saw us, just think, a whole legion. . . we'll be fucking heroes.'

`We'll be dead Pauw, Goddess damn well order your men to retreat.'

Pauw looks at him, Link can feel him getting ready to challenge his authority. Nayru help him, he will knock Pauw out and drag him away if that's what it takes. A shower of sparks splurges into the air between them to the tune of metal on metal and tumbling tent poles. Three people fall into view, limbs and swords and curse words flying around with abandon.

Frightened eyes as green as his are blue catch his fleetingly as Léon struggles to counter both of the blades coming towards him. He catches one, sending it wide to his left but the other worms through his guard, aiming for the gap between his cuirass and spaulder. Léon jerks his sword back across, knocking the other blade wildly away from its intended target. It clangs against his gorget, the steel doing its duty of stopping his throat being cut. There's no rest, no lull in the attacking, as soon as one sword is parried away the other takes its place.

Link surges towards them, forcing himself between Léon and one of the men doggedly trying to kill him. The man in front of him brings his sword down from above, Link brings the Master Sword up, point angled towards the man's feet, his forearm parallel with his forehead forcing the other blade to the right. As soon as the Imperial soldier's sword is clear of his body Link whips the Master Sword around the back of his head, curling around to slice in from the left.

He can feel Léon behind him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling at their proximity. Link can hear every desperate, scared noise he makes. Keening whines squeezed out from between clenched teeth and curses as vicious parries vibrate up tired, aching arms. The four of them seem stuck, dancing around two square meters of this burning shit pit. Parry, riposte, parry again. Shuffle forwards three steps, come back two, rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat.

His arms ache, his thighs are screaming at him, and sweat is dripping from his eyebrows into his eyes. Honestly, Link doesn't have the strength to go body-to-body with this man, but something has to break the monotony. He forces the muscles in his right leg to spring him forwards, pushing off his back leg, suddenly closing the carefully constructed distance between him and the other soldier. There's so little room to move, and less time to think. He trusts that his armour will keep the worst of what could happen at bay and reaches out with his right hand to pull his startled opponent onto the Master Sword. He lets the corpse slide gently to the floor.

Someone cries out behind him and his heart just crumbles. Link turns around, face pale under the sweat and soot and gore. Léon is on the ground, hands clutching at the join between his cuirass and spaulder, something frighteningly dark dripping between his twitching fingers. Link lunges across the few steps between them, lashing out at the man left standing. His attacks aren't graceful or well controlled, just angry and strong. He beats away the other's blade viciously enough to make the man cry out and drop his weapon. A lot of him is very ashamed of how spitefully pleased he feels to run the man through.

`Easy Léon, easy, I'm here, you're not alone,' Link gently peels Léon's hands away from the wound.

His own hands are shaking just as badly as Léon's, he prays to Nayru that it isn't deep. He lets out all the breath he's been holding in, the cut bites into Léon's deltoid and thankfully not down through his armpit towards his heart. Its raw and bleeding and probably hurts like all hell but it's not going to kill. That being said, there's nothing to bandage it with, or nothing he's willing to risk putting near an open wound at least. Ideally they need to find one of the men trained to administer medical aid.

Thudding footsteps off to their right has Link seizing the Master Sword again, teeth bared. Van Lawick and two of his men clatter into their little patch of awful. They back pedal at the sight of Léon on the ground, Link hovering aggressively protective over him. He lowers the point of the Master Sword before sheathing it away completely. He eases his hands under Léon, levering him up and gently pulling him to his feet.

`van Lawick, sound the retreat, no one else-'

`Hylians don't retreat,' Pauw hisses at him, shoulders squared and jaw set for a fight. His eyes narrow and cold under the rim of his sallet.

`They damn well do if I say they do.' Link stares him down, eyebrows pitched perilously close together.

`No.'

`Léon needs a doctor, the men are outnumbered and dying from your damn fire as much as anything else, the Imperial cavalry are mowing more down as we speak,' Link glares at Pauw, his whole body given an amber corona by the fire making it look as though it was Din herself inhabiting his body and not him, `you know what, do as you like, stay here and burn to death for all I care. Van Lawick, sound the retreat.'

The farmhouse is petulantly quiet. Four days after the retreat they're still finding themselves rigorously avoiding eye contact over the dinner table. It's oppressive, like the close, damp heat that signals long overdue thunder. Léon's spoon keeps clattering against his bowl as he tries to get used to using his off hand, his dominant one strapped in a sling to avoid more injury to his shoulder. It's not loud or even annoying, it's just that the presence of noise feels out of place.

Léon winces, his shoulders dropping in defeat, as his cutlery makes a fresh bid for freedom and skitters off the table top onto the floor. Just like that, the first drop of rain spills out of the clouds they've been gathering for days.

`If you can't keep hold of that Goddess damned thing then don't damn well eat.' Pauw hurls his own spoon down, it bounces, tapping out a little staccato rhythm.

`Sound advice for an invalid, where did you get your medical qualifications from again Pauw?' Léon deliberately makes a racket this time, unable to stop himself being petty.

`Same place you got your balls.'

Léon lays his good hand against his chest, `Awww, my baby is learning, I'm so proud.' He musters up the most angelically condescending look, gazing faux fondly across the table.

`I think I'd throttle myself if I was your son.' Pauw's tone and face are dry and flat.

`And the world would be a better place for it.' It's a murmur, an under his breath aside as Léon takes his parting shot, except it's more than loud enough for Pauw to hear in the quiet of the farmhouse.

Pauw hurtles to his feet, his chair falling obnoxiously enthusiastically behind him, `and we should have left you to fucking burn-'

`Pauw please, sit down,' van Lawick's half-hearted attempt to diffuse the situation goes largely ignored. He sighs in the way that only a very tired man can, shoulders sloping almost into non-existence and burying his face in his hands. Anders pats him on the back and grimaces at Dubois.

`But no, poor, dear, sweet shit-face here got a little hurt and that means everyone had to turn-tail like Goddess damn dogs.' Every word is a little bit louder than the last one, `we could have won, we fucking could have and you all know it. Five to one is child's play, I slaughtered more of the scum than that, and if any of the men can't manage that they deserve to die, at least they'd fall as heroes and not weak little pussies.' He turns his twisted, angry face to Link, `I gutted them, I cut their throats, I spat on their corpses and laughed while they burnt and I would have done it again and again and again until I'd killed them all like fucking cattle, just like you, just like you did. You used to be a storm. You ran down Ganon's monsters like you were Din herself. I hope Farore forsakes you because there's no way you're a hero of courage.'

Every face around the table is turned towards Link. He rests his hands in his lap, fingers just barely woven together, and takes the time to just breathe. In, out, in, out. He closes his eyes for a moment and then looks up at Pauw, `I am not anything you think I am, and I am glad of it,' each word is carefully, immaculately, enunciated, `I will never be, never have to be, a storm again and I am glad of it. I know what is courage and what is stupidity and I am glad of it. I do not disrespect the dead and I am glad of it. I do not sentence good men to die and tell them they deserve it.' He's yelling, his hands are shaking, and he got to his feet somewhere in the midst of his outburst but he doesn't remember when. `I didn't do everything I did to be an inspirational wet dream for psychopaths like you.'

`Oh, I think we all know what you did do it for, so you can have filthy degenerates like shit-face climb on your cock whenever you want.' Pauw looks so unbearably pleased with himself, `I bet you thought you could fool everyone into thinking you're a real hero but I'll pull the wool from their eyes, as soon as we get back everyone's going to know you for the filthy sodomite you are.'

`If we're going to be judged on who we fuck then your father best find a good excuse for why he put his dick in a moblin.'

Pauw tries to lunge over the table at Link but van Lawick grabs his arm before he can build up the momentum.

`Come now Pauw, I've met your mother, he's not wrong.' Léon ducks as Pauw throws his bowl at him, painting a stew-y stripe up the wall.

`You can tell the world for all I care Pauw, I'm not ashamed about who I love, but you should probably get the facts right. I'm not fucking Léon, I just have friends unlike you, but it is getting a bit tiring that people think Sheik and I live in a one-fucking-bedroom cottage because we're just the best of pals.'

`Oh Nayru's quivering twat it would be the red-eye scum blood wouldn't it. I bet he's got some kind of shadow-bastard enchantment on you hasn't he. His kind have always been poison and they should have been exterminated when we had the chance.'

`Say that again and I'll-'

`What? You'll what? You won't do anything because you're a pussy. You're a coward and you're not fit to command and I challenge you to trial by combat so we can be fucking well free of your disgusting, unnatural taint.'

Van Lawick grips Pauw's bicep so hard his fingers go white, `don't do this, don't be a fool.'

`You cannot tell me that you're on his side,' Pauw tries doggedly to keep eye contact but van Lawick's eyes keep flicking away, `that you're okay with him being a . . . a. . .'

`Homosexual?' Link rolls his eyes at Pauw's inability to even say the word.

Van Lawick clears his throat awkwardly, `what people. . . choose. . . to do in their private lives is. . . none of my concern. Sir Link is a . . . capable knight and . . . beyond that can do whatever he cares to within the remit of the law. . . ' it's a masterclass in carefully worded answers.

Pau wrenches his arm out of van Lawick's grip and storms over to fling the door open, `every single one of you disgusts me.' He slams it back into its frame behind him, leaving the farmhouse markedly silent again.

* * *

Yeah, so, Pauw is awful, I honestly hate him and also hate that I made him. . . he serve a purpose but still, I'm sorry.  
See you next time, Freckles


	14. Chapter 14

Another fortnight, another chapter. I can only offer you a whole bushel of thanks yous for coming by, I hope that's enough and that this proves to be a reasonably enjoyable read. **FYI** this one's another bloody one I'm afraid guys.  
Cheers, Freckels

* * *

It's oddly nostalgic to be sneaking around in the pitch dark again, if it's possible to feel nostalgic for the worst years of your life. Goddesses he hopes that the passage of time isn't trying to jam rose-tinted glasses onto his nose when he looks back on all of that. Regardless of whatever fuckery his memory is trying to pull, the clink and shuffle of the people padding behind him serves to break the illusion of having gone back in time.

It's not as gut-wrenchingly awful now as it was trying to get them all somewhere safe after the explosion. Not least because finally, finally, he's being listened to. His wealth of personal and inherited knowledge of clandestine, almost guerrilla, tactics at last being respected and lent on. So, once again, he's here at the head of the group as they edge towards Petrescu Manor, the perimeter wall of pitted brick rising to greet them. He beckons everyone forward to splay around him in the lee of the wall. He nods at one of men from Oxholm company, someone just as wiry and lithe as Sheik is, who immediately starts scaling the wall, his fingers and toes jammed into the pits and holes in the brick and mortar.

They wait as he peers over the top. They wait as he carefully shimmies back down the way he came. They wait while he drops the last couple of feet, landing with a quiet susurrus thud in the leaf litter.

`There are lights up at the house but everything in between is blacker than the bottom of a well sir.'

`Well then,' Sheik turns to share a look with Roucy, silent confirmation that they're on the same page, `over we go.'

The Empire is complacent. That's honestly the only reason he can find for there being no guards, no sentries, not even someone taking a piss in a bush. Maybe that's what years of overwhelming victories does to you. It probably makes for a very comfortable life as a commanding officer, to be so sure that no one is going to try and do exactly what they're trying to do. For Sheik, it feels very gratifying to be at the helm of a very rude wake-up call. Every muffled foot fall behind him resonating in his gut, making his heart thunder a bit faster and the adrenaline sail through him. They're good soldiers, good strong men and women that he has utter faith in behind him. Yes, they're definitely going to be a wake-up call.

In daylight and under better circumstances the manor's gardens are probably very nice. The lawns are neatly shorn and the looming patches of thicker darkness seem like they're carefully trimmed topiary, that or remarkably calm ghosts. He stifles a snort at the idea of a bunch of ghosts just shrugging to each other as a little cloud of people sneak passed. In his admittedly limited experience with the roving dead they are never that chill. Even the harmless ones seemed to have a taste for the dramatic and the less said about the screeching, shambling flesh pile ones the better.

The garden is split over two levels, the ground sloping sharply up about four feet before levelling out again into intricate flower beds. Closer to the house the grass gives way to a patio edged by a waist high wall made from stout marble pillars. He can hear the gentle trickle of a fountain somewhere ahead but it's not much of a problem unless someone falls in. The house itself is more of a castle than a manor, with towers and turrets silhouetted against the midnight blue sky. It's also huge, four storeys at least excluding the towers which go up about the same height again. Most of the patches of light are coming through windows on the ground floor, eerie rectangles of yellowish glow in the darkness.

They forgo the extra wide, sweeping set of steps and scramble up the bank. They head in the opposite direction to the densest area of lit windows and towards the back of the manor house. The windows are almost entirely dark here, the only light bleeding in through open doors to other rooms. The closer they get the more they can hear the Imperial soldiers inside making familiar soldiers at ease noises. One of them doesn't seem to have an indoor voice, and keeps booming out bits of Imperial or one of its many dialects. The replies are much more muffled by the walls and glass between them but every so often there's the unmistakable sound of laughter.

Roucy hand signals for everyone to stop, and they coalesce into one well-armed blob of shadows next to a thin wooden door. It is, of course, locked but no one expected otherwise. Their saving grace is the little leaded window above it, propped open on its latch. Gael braces his back against the door and cups his hands together to make a foot hold. He nods at Sheik and gives him a leg up, bringing him level with the window. Sheik flicks one of the few blades he's got left out of its hiding place and uses it to unhook the latch and let the window swing free. He grips the frame and pulls himself through, twisting his body like a cat to land as softly as possible. Picking the lock on the door is laughably easy after that.

The Hylians pad inside, easing the door shut again behind them. Sheik signs for them to split into the smaller groups they'd draw up back in the village and they all disperse, silent, predatory. Sheik, one of the Gerudo called Takisha and Jensen, the ensign from Oxholm company, edge away from the door and down one of many gloomy corridors. Every step is careful, considered. Every room they pass is checked for enemy soldiers or supply stores. They don't seem to be finding either.

The interior of the manor is fitting of the grandeur of the exterior. Thick, deep red carpets and beautifully woven rugs allow them to walk soundlessly. Some rooms have dark, carved wooden panelling, others richly patterned wallpaper or frescos or gilded reliefs. Tasteful chaises flank low, lion-footed tables decorated with now wilted vases of flowers. Stately bureaus hold orderly writing supplies and grandfather clocks tick in time with their footsteps. They find a music room, a harp and a grand piano stand dusty and unplayed. Sheiks fingertips itch to touch them so he balls his hands into fists to fight off the temptation. Now is hardly the time for anything as joyful as music.

The three of them spill into an entrance hall, huge twin staircases arc upwards on either side of them, their balustrades carved into the shape of local flora and fauna. Pink marble pillars hold up a balcony that juts over three sides of the room to give the hosts a chance to survey their party guests as they enter. Coloured moonlight paints a mirror image of the stained glass roof on the parquet floor slightly too distorted to be able to make out properly. Takisha raises her eyebrows at him and Jensen just shakes his head and jerks his thumb towards the stairs questioningly.

They're about six treads up when a muffled gasp and a less muffled clattering nearly makes them all have a heart attack. Sheik's vertebra crunch as he turns his head with vicious speed. There's a woman at the bottom of the stairs, her hands pressed to her mouth to stop any more noise coming out. A tray of pewter mugs splay around her feet dripping the last dregs of whatever had been in them lazily onto the wooden floor. Sheik raises his empty hands, holding them open and in sight as he pads back down the stairs towards her. She lowers the fingers covering her lips.

`Hylian?' she whispers, breathless, hopeful.

`Hylian' he nods, praying to Nayru that this goes the same way meeting Ioana did.

`Can you understand me?' She points at him and then herself, pantomiming along as she speaks.

`Yes, a little, my speaking is not so well though.'

She gives him an approving look, `I can take you to where the soldiers are without them seeing you. This is my house; I know all the bits they do not.' She holds a hand out, beckoning for them to follow her.

`Ah, slow, please,' Sheik waves after her, stopping her before she gets too far away, `can you us take to the things they taken have?'

She squints at him, head tilted to the side while she processes what it was he was trying to ask, `yes, of course, follow me please.'

She leads them to where one of the staircases meets the wall and presses a section of the panelling. It clicks softly and a waist high door swings outwards on spring loaded hinges. She ushers them through, everyone awkwardly crouch walking to avoid braining themselves on the tiny door frame. The passage way slopes down gently and after a couple of meters they can all unfurl, gratefully expanding into the extra room. Takisha rolls her shoulders, stretching achy muscle from having to compact herself much more severely than anyone else.

It smells incredible in here in Sheik's opinion, but Link has often told him people aren't as keen on the scent of laundry detergent as he is. Washing lines stretch from wall to wall, spaced out to allow two people to stand back to back between each one. Massive baskets sit at either end, waiting to filled with clean sheets or tablecloths or clothes. The slanted brick floor has little channels cut into it all running to drain hole in the far corner. There's a massive fireplace in the opposite wall, dry kindling and log stacked in recesses either side of it. Some part of him that is utterly detached from focussing on their actual objectives is incredibly jealous of this woman and her wonderful drying room.

They follow her, ducking under the washing lines as they go, passing through another door and into a cloister around a courtyard with a well in it. She waves them into what turns out to be an antechamber for the kitchen. Suddenly he's a kid again and it's not Takisha and Jensen behind him but Zelda and they're not fighting against an aggressively expanding empire but trying to sneak an after-dinner snack. The high, vaulted ceiling is the same. The wood burning ovens and clockwork spits hung over the fireplace are the same. The dressers and butcher's block and long, long wooden work table are the same. A castle kitchen is a castle kitchen he supposes.

He reaches out and taps his fingertips against the woman's shoulder, `where are everyone?'

Her chin wobbles, `many of them lie like heroes now, in the next place.'

He could tell her he's sorry, he wouldn't be lying. He's acquainted well enough with loss to feel genuine sympathy for those caught in its harrowing ache. He doesn't though and says something else he means just as much, `we will wound them just as well in return.'

She nods at him, gripping his shoulder briefly and squeezing tight before carrying on across the wide, tiled kitchen floor.

They twine up a tight spiral staircase that Sheik can only imagine must be awful to navigate for anyone having to carry food up from the kitchen. They reach a tiny room that has to be a staging post of sorts for the serving staff. A massive dresser full of napkins and meticulously polished cutlery is pressed hard up against the stone wall leaving a scant two-foot gap between it and the door. Just as she lays her hand on the door to ease it open something on the other side rattles.

No one breathes. Dust settles on eyelashes framing wide open, hyper alter eyes. Hairs on the backs of necks slowly prickle to attention. Sheik rolls his gaze from the door to meet the woman's eyes. He stares at her purposefully, and then slowly traces a line with his eyes back to the door they came through. She nods, mercifully quick on the up take, and retraces her steps with the utmost deliberate care. Sheik slides up to the door, pressing an ear to it.

`'Ow much beer can the bastards possibly need? Tis an insult this, keepin' it all to 'emselves.'

Sheik screws his eyes shut, biting his lip to stop himself laughing at the muffled, indignant Hylian seeping through the wood. He eases the door latch up as smoothly as he can, aiming for as little sound as possible, and steps into the room with his hands raised for good measure. Bright, angry, razor sharp steel dances under his chin. Any fear he might have had gets pushed out by odd and overwhelming swell of pride at how well Hyrule has trained her soldiers.

`Fuck me sideways,' whisper tones somehow make the profanity much weightier, `Sir Sheik, I. . . fuck I didn't. . .'

Sheik shrugs, `don't worry about it. How many teams are here?'

`About six, we've left signs for the other to follow as well. Reckon we can shift most of this with a few more hands.'

They both look at the vaguely organised trash heap of looted goods. Sacks of flour and grains are slumped over kegs of beer. There are things that look suspiciously like entire wheels of cheese and quietly mouldering vegetables. He lets his eyes pass over the body shaped lumps on the floor, their Imperial armour catching the slivers of moonlight from the window. There's no use in thinking too hard about them now. Goddesses only know what they did with the meat they took but Sheik fervently hopes it was spared the same fate as those poor carrots. Jensen tuts under his breath,

`Just because they stole it doesn't mean they can waste it, I think my ma'd cry if she saw all this.'

`Well, they ain't even gunna have the option to waste it soon. . . might leave 'em the rotten stuff though.'

Sheik nods, that seems like a fair plan to him, `can you handle this without us?'

`Oh aye, not a problem,' an awkward hand is laid on Sheik's shoulder, `give 'em hell sir.'

Takisha and Jensen follow him back to the room with the dresser in it, stopping briefly to explain the change in objective to their guide. She grins, her teeth an unnerving pale stripe in the gloom, and leads them back the way they came.

They skirt around the damp patch and scattered mugs in the entrance halls and pass through a door shadowed by the balcony overhead. The beating of Sheik's heart kicks up a notch when he notices the faint glow of oil lantern light bleeding around the corner ahead. The woman pokes her head around it, lips pulled tight and fingernails digging into the delicately patterned wallpaper.

Light and noise tumbles out of an open doorway at further down the hallway. She recoils from it,

`here, they are in there. . .' she tangles her fingers into skirt and takes a big breath, `I. . . I do not know how best to do this. . . m-my child, my daughter, she is in there, they keep her so that I will behave. Please, I. . .I do not want her to die like her father did.'

Sheik takes one of the woman's hands, feeling how badly her fingers are shaking against his,

`We will-'

A wave of noise crashes out of the door, splashing and reverberating around the corridor. Someone hollers, much nearer to them than before, and makes noises like their smacking something heavy against the doorframe.

`They are calling for me,' her eyes are huge, and she clutches at his hand.

He squeezes back and extricates his fingers from her grip, digging a throwing knife out from where it was secreted at the small of his back with his other hand. He pivots out from behind the corner and whips his arm, wrist and fingers with balletic accuracy to send the blade flying. The Imperial soldier goes down with a guttering, sucking breath, clawing at the steel lodged in his throat. Confused burbling trickles through the door and puddles around the dying man. Chairs scrape and hurried feet slap over the floor. Someone new pokes their head out of the door.

Sheik is already poised, crouched just out of view by the door frame. He springs forward, another of his dwindling stock of knives in his hand. His angle affords him a good shot at this second soldier's inner thigh and consequently his femoral artery. He yelps as he goes down, dropping to his knee on his uninjured leg. Thick hands reach into the tangle of bodies and drag Sheik into the brightly lit sitting room. Words that he can't understand are yelled into his face as he's bodily lifted and shaken like a ragdoll. His precious knife clatters to the ground, jiggled out of his grip.

He jerks and twists and wriggles to try and get free but the hands around his shoulders won't loosen. The ambient shouting keeps getting louder and louder. Takisha bellows something Gerudo as she and Jensen launch themselves through the door with no thought for the bleeding man they step over. Their reckless advance is met by a tide of Imperial soldiers finally over the shock enough to act. Sheik grips the skin on the underside of his puppeteer's upper arms and pulls down as forcefully as he can. The man howls, letting go and dumping Sheik on the floor.

His bad leg shrieks at his from the sudden impact and he fumbles getting back to his feet. Still, despite dragging an uncooperative limb he ducks beneath the big, crumple-faced man's fresh attempts to get hold of him. He feints a cross and instead drives a hook into an unsuspecting kidney. He tries to drown out the high, persistent wailing that soars above the cursing and grunting of the fight. It's a penetratingly annoying sound, repetitive and warbling and . . . and with a tumbling of his stomach he realises what it is. It's the sound of a frightened child crying.

He stops wasting time and desperately rams the solid part of his forehead into the soft bridge of the man's nose, felling him like a stout, hairy tree. He scans the room, head ratcheting to and fro fast enough to make him feel a little motion sick. He finds her, bundled in a corner, hands over her ears, face red and wet with tears and snot. He scrambles towards her, bad leg protesting, and simply hurls the soldier that tries to intercept him out of the way. She flails at him when he stoops to pick her up. Trashing and screaming in his arms, shoving her hands into his face.

`Viorica' the woman shouts the name over and over again, standing frozen in the doorway, the bottom of her skirt slowly soaking up the bloody puddle she's in.

`Mama' there's a tearful, hiccoughing reply for every terrified call of the little girl's name.

Sheik gets to take all of two steps towards the door before the dull steel of a standard issue Imperial short sword appears under his nose. He back pedals, trying fruitlessly to put some distance between it and the little wailing lump in his arms. An inhuman noise cuts through the room, the doorway empty now as the woman throws herself across the room and wrenches an oil lantern from the wall. She hurls it at the solider levelling his sword at her daughter.

It shatters, soaking him in flaming oil. His screams rival hers in volume as she launches herself onto his back, the cuffs of her blouse catching alight. They stumble around the room, the rug under foot flickering into flame. She scratches at his face as he reaches out to the rest of his company who recoil from him. He collides roughly with the wall, crashing into it again and again to try and dislodge her.

`Mama' small hands grip the front of his suit tightly and Viorica struggles to turn herself around to be able to see her mother, `mama? Mama? Mama?' Her whole body shudders every time she sobs.

Another crash against the wall makes the woman lose her grip and slide heavily to the floor. The solider crumples along with her, curling and twisting on the ground trying to put out the flames.

The barrage of noise doesn't let up as Roucy bursts over the threshold, a collection of Oxholm company men tumbling after him, summoned by the carcophany. Roucy barrels into the nearest Imperial soldier almost bringing him down with the force of impact alone. The men behind him fan out into the room, closing off the only exit. Between the sudden influx of more incensed Hylians and the slowly spreading rug fire the Imperial soldiers take the sensible way out and slowly start to lay down their weapons.

Jensen knees down next to the woman, his jaw clenched tight, as gentle tries to find a pulse. He lets go of her wrist and turns to look at Sheik and shakes his head. Everything around him turns into white noise. He tightens his grip around Viorica, curling an arm around her head so she can't turn and see mother. He bows his head down, closing around her like a coat of armour, and does the only thing he can think to do; start singing.

He sings to her as the others round up the Imperial soldiers. He sings to her as they make their way back to the dining room to re-join the rest of the Hylians. He sings her the nursery rhymes Zelda's mother and nursemaids used to sing them. He sings her the Sheikah songs Impa would sing for him as a boy when he was frightened by thunderstorms. He sings her anything and everything he can think of and he keeps singing and singing and singsing because he's not sure what he'll do if he stops.


	15. Chapter 15

A bit of fluff for the weekend, I hope you enjoy it. You do deserve all the nice things after all.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

Viorica is sitting towards one end of the monstrously long work table in Ioana and Ciprian's kitchen, a little rectangle of slate in a wooden frame and a stub end of some chalk in front of her. She made a few scribbles when they were first given to her but hasn't touched it much since. Sheik rubs his eyes, giving them a short rest from flicking back and forth between the little girl and Ioana's back as she brews some of the tea requisitioned in last night's raid.

It had been chaos when they'd gotten back, a bevy of captured Imperial soldiers in tow. Long, circular discussions went on and on as the Hylians and the villagers tried to work out what to do with them. Personally, Sheik hadn't been paying much attention which made for an awkward minute or so when everyone seemed to turn to him for an opinion. Eventually the Imperial men were corralled in a corner of the empty cow barn that had been serving as a hiding place for Hyrule's rag-tag best and brightest. The group was hastily split up, one to take turns standing guard over their newly acquired prisoners and the other to start ferrying supplies back from the manor.

Sheik had been about to follow the others to the barn when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

`I will go with them and do any watch shift you have, I think she would be better off with somewhere proper to sleep.' Toma had smiled at them both despite the puffy bags under his eyes.

`Thank you, you are a lot kind.'

Toma chuckled, correcting him in same gentle way as his mother, `very, and it is no problem.'

He jogged off to catch up with the others on their way to the barn leaving Sheik to carry Viorica to the bakery so they could both sleep. She'd refused to let go of him at first, clinging tightly to the front of his suit. Ioana kept trying to pry her off, both her and Ciprian talking softly to her all the while. They told her she was a big, brave girl and that she was safe now. They tried offering treats, hot food, and even a bath to bribe Viorica into letting go. Eventually Sheik just said he didn't mind holding her until she was asleep because distressing her anymore would be cruel beyond words.

The morning had gone a bit smoother, even though Viorica had refused any breakfast Sheik did manage to give them both a bit of a wash and Ioana borrowed some clean clothes for her from a neighbour. The slate and chalk was their most recent desperate attempt to let her know she was somewhere friendly. Neither of them were very sure it was working. Ioana sets two steaming mugs of black tea on the table before putting a sweet roll on a plate for Viorica who keeps her hands resolutely folded in her lap.

He has to do something. His fingers twist and itch with the need to do something but he has no idea what it should be. He just wanted people to leave him alone after he lost his parents but he'd been older than Viorica was and hadn't been surrounded by strangers. He remembers Zelda breaking down and asking him if it was so wrong to just want to be allowed to just be sad after the state funeral for her parents. He and Link had been sat in her room with her while she wrote replies to all the letters of condolence from various other heads of state when she's just crumpled one up and hurled it across the room. She'd cried, the first time he's seen her do it in years, and just shouted and shouted about how she hated all these people telling her to be strong and brave and anything but the miserable she really felt.

He pins his lip between his teeth and looks at Viorica. He is definitely not going to do that to her. He's not going to tell her to feel anything besides what she feels, especially not when his own emotions are such a mess. What he can do, what he will do, though, is show her that he's not going to hurt her and that he's nothing like the Imperial soldiers. He reaches for the slate and the chalk.

`Umm. . .here, watch,'

She glances up at him from beneath her fringe, her grey-brown eyes red-rimmed but dry at the moment. He starts sketching, laying down light construction lines and shapes before building them up into something more recognisable. Her eyes follow his hand as he rubs out stray lines and refines bits here and there. Ioana makes an impressed face at him when he pauses to have a mouthful of tea before starting to add shadows and highlights. He slides the slate a bit closer to Viorica when he's done,

`I am knowing not if you like. . . ' he looks at Ioana for help when he realises he's forgotten the word.

`Horses'

`Horses,' he repeats it after her slowly reminding himself of it, `if there is something you more like I will do that.'

He manages to catch her eye and the niggling worry that his broken speaking and thick accent make him incomprehensible to her sets in. She stays silent but reaches out and carefully pulls the chalk out of his fingers and starts adding grass and little flowers around the horse's hooves. She looks up at him briefly and he gives her the broadest smile he can manage,

`a lot pretty, you are very good.'

Ioana cocks an eyebrow at him, `very.'

He sighs, teasing her back, `yes mother, very pretty.'

Viorica pushes the slate back towards him when she's done, setting the chalk down next to it.

`Another?' Sheik flips the slate over onto the empty clean side.

She nods in a tiny, jerky movement, looking at his hands instead of his face.

`What it should be this time?' She looks down at her lap again so he starts suggesting things with some help form Ioana, `cat?'

`A rabbit?'

`Bird?

`A Dog?' Another little nod so Ioana carries on, `what sort of dog? A nice fluffy, cuddly one?' Viorica nods again and Sheik and Ioana can't help themselves from grinning at each other.

He double checks he understood before he starts to draw, `fluffy is lots of hair yes?'

`Mmmhmmm,' Ioana laughs into her mug at his way of describing it.

He pushes the chalk over the surface of the slate starting with light, feathered lines again that become more solid as he builds up from a rough skeleton of shapes into something that actually looks like a dog. He's better with dogs than horses, equine anatomy still gives him trouble sometimes despite all the years he's spent riding and caring for Sterren. Goddesses he hopes his horse is alright, and not buried under some miserable pile of dirt next to a sunken road leagues away. He concentrates harder on what his hands are doing to push the thought to the back of his mind.

He draws a collie, the sort that has a long, pointed face and brown, tan and creamy white fur. He can't remember the name of the breed, even after ransacking him memory for it, but does sort of recall Zelda telling him traditionally they come from the region around the border between Hyrule and its norther neighbour. He's pinning his hopes on that fact meaning it might be a breed Viorica is familiar with.

Ioana leans over to get a better look at what's going on behind the corral of his hands. She makes a pleased noise, `ah, look, Viorica,' she points even though the little girl is already staring intently at the slate, `a Mountain Sheepdog. Do you like them?'

Sheik slides the slate and chalk across the table top, offering them back to Viorica, `is that what such are called here?'

`Yes, quite a literal name really I suppose. What are they called in Hyrule?'

He laughs at himself, `I have been remember trying to but cannot. . .,' he presses his lips together casting around for the name again before hazarding a guess, speaking in Hylian for the first time in a while, `a Rough Collie I think but I'm not sure, and I'm not even sure there is a name for them in Sheikah or Gerudo.'

They watch as more flowers, grass, clouds and a sun are carefully drawn in around the dog. Viorica makes each line gently but deliberately, the tip of her tongue pokes out from between her teeth under the force of her concentration. Sheik smiles, easy and unguarded and with his eyes crinkling at the corners. It's his good smile, his real smile, the one that's been gone ever since the explosion and the last time he saw Link. Link would know how to make Viorica feel at ease. Sheik can imagine the daft, gentle, careful things he'd do to settle her worries and make her feel welcome, safe. The idea of the two of them, Viorica and Link, laughing, smiling, playing make believe in their perpetually sandy, sun-trap little cottage spreads like flood water in his mind. He blinks away the dampness he can feel gathering along his lower lashes.

`Sheikah and Gerudo? They are the other languages spoken in your country yes?'

`Mmm?' He looks back to Ioana, `oh, yes, yes they are.'

`And you can speak them?'

`Gerudo only a little words, but Sheikah is language for my people.' He grinds his bottom lip between his teeth, the last time he spoke Sheikah to someone must have been the last time he saw Impa. Shame collects in his stomach when he works out how long ago that was.

`What does it sound like, your people's language?' Ioana is still leaning forward, head tilted in genuine curiosity.

Sheik opens his mouth and then closes it again, he puzzles out his answer a bit more before he opens it again. `It is best for speaking stories, I think, we often did so. Not. . . not a lot people speak it now. The best way to show. . .' He doesn't really know what the best demonstration of his native language is, well no, he does he just isn't sure he wants to do it. Two pairs of eyes are settled on him and that's what makes the decision in the end, `I think best way is this.'

He breathes deep, right down into his chest, his diaphragm expanding to its limit and starts tapping out a rhythm on the pitted wooden table top to keep himself to time. Then, he sings. The nerves are never because he believes he's lacking in skill, he's got a modest confidence in that, but more because sharing stories is such a personal thing. Every singer has their own way of doing it, little quirks in the lyrics and dynamics of it all. The quivers and quakes of emotion in his voice are his alone because even though all Sheikah sing the same stories, they all mean something different to every singer. The ones he sings for Link are the ones that, for him, carry the ache and weight of love, unconditional and unbending. He and Impa sing the stories that outline their history and family and grief. Now, he sings a story about the child who lit the stars alight, a story that formed his boyhood ideas of courage and duty and doing the good thing. The same as he did last night, when he carried Viorica away from the manor house.

The kitchen is still for full, fat minutes after he finishes. His palms get clammy as he starts to worry that he should have just strung together some quick, nonsense sentence and been done with it. Ioana sets her mug down and brings her hands together, the clapping resonates around the big, stone-walled room, bouncing back off the walls so it sounds like invisible ghosts have joined in with her. Viorica stares at him, drawing hand still, her dusty fingers only loosely holding the chalk.

`Your language is beautiful,' Ioana takes his hand in hers, clutching it with honest feeling. `Can you tell me what it all means?'

He can feel the blush prickling up his neck, `I can, ah, but, um, it is not a lot useful to know, not much people speak it and. . ' his embarrassment makes him trail off.

`Very,' a little voice tells him firmly, `not very useful.'

He looks down at the little girl next to him, she blinks back. His whole face spreads into a sunshine grin as he turns to look at Ioana and then back again.

`Thank you. Yes,' he's laughing, round pealing laughs, `not very useful, yes.'

Ioana giggles and gushes over the table, telling Viorica she's a good, clever, wonderful, excellent girl. She looks down at her lap again but this time pink in the cheeks and with a tiny smile pulling at the corners of her lips.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 ingredients: Person that needs to be punched getting punched, 1; blood, a solid few ladlefuls; bad people saying bad things, also 1; horses, like, at least two; plant root based coffee alternative, 1 mentioned and left to go cold; drama, a whole metric crap-tonne. Levity aside, if this chapter cause anyone any difficulty I apologise wholeheartedly and unreservedly.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

`This is a terrible idea,' van Lawick cradles a tepid mug of chicory coffee in his thin fingers.

`And letting that Goddess damned sodomite lead this garrison isn't?' Pauw tightens his grip on the window sill he's leaning against so much that the worn-out wood groans.

`Don't say that. . .' it's a weak rebuke, petering out uncomfortably.

`Don't say what? Sodomite? It's what he fucking well is,' the poor warped wood finally gets released as Pauw turns away from staring out the window. `I thought you had a spine Peter, I thought you knew how to stand up for what's right.'

Van Lawick looks away, the inside of his cheek clamped between his teeth to stop impulsive words from tumbling out. He holds his silence, assembling and rejecting sentence after sentence as he tries to find one suited to his needs. Pauw growls as he realises he's not getting an answer anytime soon and throws himself into pacing up and down the width of van Lawick's room. Five and a half paces one way and then five and a half back. The floorboards complain as pitifully as the sill had moments before.

`It's not about the right thing, and Naryu knows what that even is anymore, it's about doing the sensible thing Henrijk. This just isn't sensible, he-'

`If you're on his side be a man and just fucking well say so.' Pauw's blocky hands are wrapped into tight fists, his arms shaking at his sides from how fiercely he's tensing his muscles.

`I'm not on anyone's side,' van Lawick pauses to push a hand roughly through his thick, dark brown curls, `Why does this bother you so badly? There have always been people who. . .who are. . . like he is and it's not as if they-'

`It's because it's not fucking normal Peter.' Pauw throws his arms out, thoughtlessly gesturing at the plain normalcy of the room around them, `it's not how the Goddesses intended us to be. The Holy Books say that unions are to be between a man and a woman so that children may be brought into this world.'

`Don't play the priest with me, the Holy Books say there must be no intercourse before marriage as well you know. . . how many poor working class girls have you left with your child growing inside them is it now? Five? Seven? Because last I heard there were at least ten of your bastards scattered around.'

Pauw growls, low and feral, `that has nothing to do with you.'

`And what Link does behind closed doors has nothing to do with you either but you seem to have decided it does.' They stare at each other, van Lawick licks his cracked lips before carrying on, `I won't say that I don't think it's. . . unusual but you can't say they aren't discreet and so long as they stay that way I don't see a reason to cause undue fuss. Please Henrijk, don't do this, don't cause a scene when there doesn't need to be one.'

`He is unfit to command. He is unfit to serve. I don't want the men to look up to a false idol.'

Van Lawick rolls his eyes at each petulant, pouted sentence. There's a striking similarity between Pauw's behaviour now and his daughter when she's been told she isn't allowed to have something she wants. He sighs and puts down his cold coffee, there's little point in drinking it now. He'd been dearly hoping that he could use simple logic to talk Pauw out of ploughing on but clearly getting him to set aside unreliable emotional arguments in favour of reasoning isn't possible. It's all going to end in tears, and most likely Pauw's. What else can they expect? Link defeated one of the greatest evils Hyrule has ever seen when he was barely out of boyhood whereas Pauw is coddled nobleman's son playing at soldiering.

Van Lawick stands up, `I pray to Nayru that you think this through as realise you're making a mistake.'

`Who needs Nayru when you have Din?'

He doesn't even look at Pauw, just shakes his head and walks away. He's always believed it was only fools who thought that favouring one Goddess over the others was a good idea. There must be balance in all things, as his father says. The stairs creak a familiar welcome to him as he steps down them into the farmhouse kitchen. Anders, Dubois and his own colour sergeant Tamm look glumly over at him. Peter pulls out a chair beside them and falls into it.

`Is it true sir? They're going to duel?' Dubois' face is a sickly grey under the four days' worth of stubble peppering his chin and cheeks. He looks very much like a man that hasn't slept a lot.

`Well I tried to talk your Knight Commander out of it but I'm sure you know how much he enjoys not listening to other people.'

Dubois grimaces, even if the other soldiers value comradery enough to not point out how working under Pauw has made him look older it's still true and mirrors are seldom inclined to lie. Tamm drums his fingers on the table top,

`I suppose as long as Sir Pauw's challenge stands that the Champion will rise to it?'

`Aye, well,' Anders rocks back in his chair, `I think protecting what he cares for is in his bones, ain't much to be done but wait and see how it all falls out.'

`Why couldn't they just leave everything well alone? My ma always said that if you don't poke a bee's nest in the first place you won't get stung.' Dubois throws his hands in the air, gesticulating out his exasperation, `This entire army relies on everyone keeping schtum about what it is we enjoy getting up to and that works just fine.'

Tamm rests his chin on his palm, `It's hardly fair though is it? You and I, we've a wife and wee ones at home, we're normal, it's easy for us. It breaks my heart a little knowing there are folk that have to lie about being in love.'

None of them really want to be the one to agree that it's true. That they are the ones that have it easy. That they've been spared a wealth of pain simply by chance. Anders clears his throat to chase the silent minutes away,

`There's perhaps something we could do, Sir, if you agree to it.'

`What an unbearable, unfettered twat.' Léon hurls a little used boot brush across the stable yard. It clatters against the wood of one of the stalls making the horse inside snort its displeasure.

`In my very limited experience twats are far more pleasant than Pauw is.'

`Limited experience?' Link doesn't have to look up to see Léon's raised eyebrow, he can hear it just fine.

`Okay, fine, in my entirely theoretical experience but my point still stands.' He runs a hand over Epona's velvet-soft nose, `anyway Pauw's made his bed now he has to lie in it.'

They lapse into quiet, Link keeping himself busy grooming both Epona and Sterren, finding comfort in being so close to something that reminds him so strongly of Sheik. Léon can't keep still either but seems to be having much more trouble channelling his restlessness into something productive. He picks up stray bits of tack, moving them from place to place but not really tidying them away. He throws something else, a broken bit this time, growling in agitation along with the horses.

`Aren't you angry?' He turns to Link, swiping a hand through his hair, `I want to punch his fucking face in but you're just. . . you're here with these Goddess damned horses like nothing is happening.'

Link pets Sterren mechanically, `I am, I was, I. . . being angry doesn't fix anything right now. I did my yelling and spitting and now? Now I just need to focus, I'm about to duel and man Léon and we both know he'll want it to be to the death.'

Léon chuckles without any real humour, `true, Pauw is hardly a first blood sort of man. He's got form you know, people say he ran a man through for accusing Pauw of knocking up his daughter.'

Link sighs, he's not surprised, about the running through or the knocking up. He coaxed it out of van der Renne once, that Pauw's racking up quite the crop of illegitimate children even at the ripe old age of twenty-three. It's one of the things that's always baffled him about society's insistence of the wholesomeness of heterosexual relationships. But, perhaps because it's largely the women left beaten, or raped or left alone raising some young man's `mistake' society doesn't care to look at the seedier side of things.

A trepidatious knock against the stable door makes a lot of heads turn, two human and many equine. Pauw company's Ensign, a skinny boy called Harris, hovers awkwardly on the yawning gap between the doors. Link gives Epona one last stroke before hauling himself over the stall door and brushing down his shirt and trousers.

`What is it lad?'

The boy stumbles over his words at first, ditch-water brown eyes wide and cheeks pink, `S-sir Pauw demands your presence in the yard an hour before sun down so that. . . s-so that he can have his satisfaction from you.'

`interesting choice of words given what this is all about. Tell him I'll be there Harris, please.'

The boy bobs his head, dropping his gaze to the floor, `yes Sir, thank you Sir.' He stops for a bit, lips and tongue moving but no sounds coming out. When he does find his voice he blurts the words out as if they might disappear again, `I think what you're doing is very brave Sir.'

`I've done a lot of things that probably count as brave. . . but I'm not sure this is one of them. Thank you Harris, I'm glad I'm not a filthy degenerate in everyone's eyes.'

`Oh Goddesses no Sir, and lots of the men still respect you plenty.'

Links smiles at him, which only serves to make the redness in his cheeks spread to his ears as well, `You're a good lad Harries, now, you should probably go before Pauw accuses you of being a turncoat or something else equally stupid.'

Harris smiles and nods at him before jogging out the door. Léon waits until he's out of sight before speaking again.

`I wish someone would have a crush on me like that. . . is it the blue eyes? I bet it's the blue eyes.' Link snorts and lets him carry on, `an hour before sun down, Farore's breath, he's got a flare for the dramatic hasn't he?'

`How long does that give us?' Link cranes his neck to peer out the door and judge the level of light outside.

Léon, however, stumps over to the open door and sticks his head out. He yells at a passing soldier,

`Hey you, yes you baldy, what time is it?'

`Ah, err, 'tis about four chimes passed noon Sir,' a confused, thickly west Hylian accented voice offers back.

`Superb,' Léon says to himself as he turns back inside the stables, `I suppose we better find a way to kill three hours then.'

The air is already getting noticeably colder, almost as if the Goddesses felt the weather needed to match everyone's mood. The vast majority of the men have been sent away, banned from congregating around the central farm yard to watch the fight. Only the knight commanders, colour sergeants and one of the medical offers remain. Pauw is stalking up and down his end of the yard, kicking clods of dirt viciously out of the way. Link remains still, only his eyes moving as they follow Pauw.

Van Lawick stands in the middle with Léon, Tamm and Anders. Léon pulls his lips into a tight line and looks over to the taller man,

`I assume he refused to listen to any of your reason?'

`At least you can't say he isn't consistent.' Van Lawick shrugs, 'I was only ever going to waste so much breath. Did things go off smoothly earlier?'

Every looks at Tamm, following the direction of van Lawick's question.

`Aye Sir, sent off one of the lads as soon as I could.'

`What's this?' Léon's eye flick between the other faces there, wide and bright with curiosity.

`Hopefully it's a way to fix things.'

It's not much of an answer but Léon makes a satisfied face and gives van Lawick's shoulder a mostly unnecessary squeeze. `If it's a solution you're happy with Peter then I'll trust it.'

`Enough of your damn gossiping, I've no time to sit around and watch you all act like fishwives.' Pauw bellows at them, his hands clenched into tight fists.

The cluster of men in the middle of the yard disperses. Léon walks back towards Link, ready to offer whatever help proves necessary.

They're playing by standard duelling rules. No armour, no ranged weapons, no forfeiting and a single nominated second. Léon hands Link his long sword. It feels odd to hold the hilt of a blade that isn't the Master Sword but not utterly uncomfortable. Pauw scoffs at him over the forty-meter void between them.

`Oh, too scared that I'll beat you to use your precious Master Sword? Going to blame it all on your blade when you lose?'

Link sighs and pointedly ignores the jab. It's not like Pauw would believe him if he said it was for his sake that the Master Sword is still sheathed in his room. Anders beckons them to the centre of the yard to square up roughly in the middle of it. Two pairs of feet set a careful ten paces apart. At the signal they bring their swords up vertically, tips pointed to the reddening sky, in polite, formal salutes. They bring them down again. Pauw whipping his blade with a flourish. Link much more sedately, measured and slow. Anders call them to take up the en guard position, and, with a silent sigh, bids them fight.

Pauw comes in quickly, threateningly light on his feet and with enough muscle mass to back it up. Link counters, meeting force with force. Steel clangs and grates over steel. Wide, watching eyes wince at the auditory intrusion. Link dances back, pivoting, turning his body to let Pauw's sword point sail passed him. He arcs his own up, the odd, oblique angle giving him the perfect opening. It grazes but doesn't cut. Pauw howls like a wounded bear. The physical pain paling in comparison to the ego damage of not being the one to get first blood. He reaches out, groping and grabbing with his off hand. A fistful of Link's shirt gets wrapped in his thick fingers. He pulls, swallowing the gap between them, and rams his forehead into the bridge of Link's nose.

Awful, white, jagged, angry pain spurts across Link's face. He can feel it dripping out of his nostrils and down his lips. He spits out the bits that worm their way into his mouth. They puddle, thick and red, in little droplets on the dirt. He answers back in kind, using the lack of space between them to his advantage. He hammers the hilt of his sword into Pauw's stomach over and over, using his free hand to physically hold Pauw in place for the beating. Pauw rakes his booted foot down the inside of Link's calf, stamping down hard on his foot at the bottom. Link pushes him backwards, wanting him away, out of reach for doing more harm. He doesn't wait for Pauw to regain his balance but steps in, circling Pauw's blade with his own and directing its point harmlessly out of the way. His sword tip finds a mark though, piercing into Pauw's right shoulder. The riposte is lightning fast despite the pain he must be in. There's no time to parry, only to bite back a hiss as razor metal slices along Link's side.

They pause, panting into the reddening evening nether one willing to back down even as their shirts slowly stain darker and darker. Link moves first, surging on to a symphony of screaming pain from his side harmonising with the dulling ache of his nose. He leaps, explosive and quick, landing with a loud smack of his feet on the earth. Pauw blinks, leaning back away from the sudden sound. Their blades tangle, locked together in a mess made entirely of edges. Pauw tries to wrench his free but Link stops him by ramming his knuckles into Pauw's throat. He gargles and chokes, making awful desperate, wet sucking sounds. Link hooks a foot behind Pauw's knee, forcing him to the floor. Their swords unravel and Pauw makes a wild, upward thrust. It's a simple case of stepping to the side to evade it. Pauw spits at him from the floor and reaches up to drag Link down like quick sand, sword forgotten in the dirt. Link lashes out against the cloying, clawing hands, bruising and breaking fingers with his pommel. They keep coming back tough, insistent and inevitable, he goes down.

No, no, not again, no more. His mind and body revolt. Grit brown earth and blood-shot sunset sky give way. They crack and stumble out of focus and view. Oil on water tendrils of nightmares strobe over where they were. Grey dead-flesh hands with broken tombstone fingernails smother him. Fighting their way into his mouth and nose and eyes. He screams through fingers smearing blood over his lips. He grabs one of the hands and pushes it, pushes and pushes and pushes it back on itself until it snaps and falls limply away. He fights, with the other one, wrestles with it until he manages to invert up and down. He's above the hands now. He can see the root of them shivering away from him. He brings a fist up, clenched and already swelling from over use. He stares at the root, and it stares back at him, frightened. Frightened. Like a boy. Like him. He puts his fist down.

Link has got Pauw clamped between his thighs, straddling his waist. His bloody shoulder making a mess beneath them and his broken wrist held carefully away from further harm. His face and forearms are peppered with scratches and fresh, darkening bruises. Link rolls off him, drags himself away and throws up. A hand settles on his shoulder. He wipes his mouth and looks up, Lord Innes-Ker looks back.

`That's enough Link, that's enough.' The lord looks over towards where Pauw is still lying, `how is he?'

`He'll live Sir, be right as rain after a few bandages and a couple of bones have been set.'

The medical officer turns back to the task at hand, making gentle coaxing noises to get Pauw to let him do his job.

`My lord, I'm sorry I didn't. . . I never. . . I-I'm sorry.' Link's voice trips and quavers around this words he can't say.

Innes-Kerr shrugs, `He challenged you, you rose to it. . . perhaps a little too much. . . just give me your word you'll never do this again.'

`I swear Sir, by the Goddesses and on everything I hold dear.' Link licks his lips, tasting the iron tang of blood on them. `You. . .you know what the challenge was about?'

`Yes, van Lawick had the sense to inform van der Renne and myself. We're going to move Pauw company to another garrison. Powys and Symth could do with the extra hands.'

`Do you,' he pushes the words out in a huff of breath, `do you care sir?'

`About what?'

`About what I am?'

Innes-Kerr flicks his eyes over to Pauw and back again, `after what you did for Hyrule you could be fucking a pig for all I care.' He scratches his beard and carries on, `we'll find a way to keep the men in line but I feel you should know your secret isn't much of a secret anymore.'

Link pushed his hair out of his eyes, `maybe that's better.'


	17. Chapter 17

Merry festivities everyone, have a chapter! I hope you're all having a nice time full of questionably tasteful jumpers and appropriately themed coffee based beverages.  
Cheers, Freckles

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She steps down from her horse, a well-tempered dun mare she'd helped train in moments snatched away from her duties. It'd have been more proper to have ridden in one of the comfortable travelling coaches fitted out specially in the royal colours but she'd rather tightrope walk between the high towers of Hyrule castle than be driven about when she could be in the saddle herself. She dusts down her riding breeches, the stiff fabric standing modestly away from her thighs, only coming much closer to her skin from the knee down allowing her to tuck it easily into her boots. The skirt-like tails of her forest green embroidered riding coat dip their ends in the pebbly dust of the courtyard in front of the castle rising-up above her.

Built out of red brick, unlike the grey stone of her own, it stands bright against the pale blue sky. The double width oak doors stand open like a dark mouth at the base of the square, central tower. Slightly mismatched wings spread out on either side of it, hinting at the additions and renovations carried out over the years. A glass paned roof doom catches the light on one side while a round tower topped by an intricate weather vane on the other glints on the other. Her retinue, their horses, the pack horses and the probably excessive train of luggage make an ocean of noise behind her. Things are lifted down and piled up again, moved hither and thither under the instruction of Willem.

She passes her reigns to a young girl wearing the livery of the royal guard and looks up to catch a darker patch of shadow moving towards them from the entrance hall. Matei steps into the sun, a hand shielding his eyes. Zelda lifts a hand in greeting, too far away for words without resorting to an unseemly shout. He dips his head back and keeps walking towards her. A harassed looking woman follows him, holding the hem of her skirt up so she can walk quickly enough to match his much longer strides. Matei's smile tugs her own lips into one that matches, warm, a welcome without words.

`Your Majesty,' he dips into a bow, the appropriate depth for one royal meeting another, `It's good to see your trip pleasantly again.'

The woman beside him looks like she might have an apoplectic fit as the jumble of words falls out of Matei's mouth. His eyes go wide and the familiar blush starts its steady journey up his neck to settle over his cheeks and ears. Zelda holds in the chuckle that wants to worms out of her, it feels more than a little cruel to laugh at him.

`It's very good to see you again too and it was a pleasant trip, thank you.'

Both of the bodies in front of her deflate as they let out all the tense, held in breaths they'd been collecting since the moment Matei mangled his greeting. The woman says something quietly in their native language that as far as Zelda can work out translates as,

`We could have avoided all this if you had gone to Their Majesties in the throne room.' Matei manages to get even redder as the woman carries on, this time she speaks Hylian, `Your Majesty Queen Zelda, if you would please kindly accompany me to the throne room, the King and Queen are waiting to receive you there. I have servants on hand to see to your belongings,' she gestures behind her and a swarm of people in uniform spew from the castle.

Zelda turns to look at Willem who had ghosted over to stand at her shoulder the moment Matei and the woman had emerged. `Willem, I'll leave this in your hands. Thank you. . . ' she pauses waiting for the woman to fill the gap with her name.

`Eva, You Majesty.'

`Thank you Eva, if you would be so kind as to lead the way.'

She bobs into a curtsey, and turns back to the castle, walking at a much more measured pace this time. Matei falls in beside Zelda. His face is finally starting to go back to its usual colour. There's a niggling bit of pity sitting at the back of her mind that he'd made the effort to push himself to come and greet her on his own only to end up embarrassed and scarlet. At least he seems much more at ease moving around his own home than he ever did in Hyrule castle. He looks to be in good health though, his broad shoulders straight and strong beneath his cream jacket carefully decorated with traditional stitching. Perhaps if the weather holds, and they find the time they can walk through the gardens here and he can teach her more about flora.

Eva leads them down wide, tapestry lined hallways, passed paintings, decorative urns, suits of armour and tasteful flower arrangements. It would seem that, regardless of whose castle you're in, royal interior decorating is much of a muchness. To Zelda is has a pleasant twinge of homeliness to it. These could be her aggressively ornate and laughably impractical suits of armour and her tapestries that depict people doing questionable things to each other in the far-right hand corner behind a tree and her mildly alarming taxidermied bear that everyone avoids walking passed in the dark. Matei reaches up to pat the bear fondly on the snout as they pass it, Curious, Zelda leans towards him to whisper,

`Does it have a name?'

He draws his hand back as if the bear had come to life again and bitten him and turns to look at like she might do the same. He trips over his feet as he trips over his words,

`Ah, oh, sorry I-it's habit, I didn't-so silly really, please-'

`There's one in Hyrule castle too, a however many times great-grandfather of mine had it stuffed, or so Willem says. Sheik and I used to try and climb onto its shoulders.'

He stops burbling apologies and lets his shoulders relax from where they'd hiked themselves up to in his agitation.

`I've always called him Maro, Father always told me if I ate all my greens I'd get to be as tall as Maro when I was older.'

`Did it work?'

His eyebrows shunt together in confusion, `well, no, I barely come up to his shoulder, couldn't you see?'

Zelda can't help herself from laughing, hand over her mouth and shoulders shaking, `no, did it work to make you eat your vegetables.'

`Oh,' he nods at how much more sense the question makes in light of her clarification, `yes, very well in fact, I never left a single bit on my plate.'

`Your father is a very clever man.'

He smiles, happy to accept a compliment on Decebal's behalf, `He is, I hope to be half the king he is one day.'

`I have every faith that you will be all that and more.'

There's genuine surprise in his face when he looks at her, along with a much gentler blush than usual. A stray thought that maybe, quite possibly, no one has ever said something like that to him before wades across her mind. It was a simple comment, an almost stock compliment between people of their station. It's bewildering and elating that it seems to mean this much to him. She hopes he knows she means it.

Eva stops at the bottom of a flight of semi-circular stairs. The three of them are reflected in the polished green marble. At the top matching, green marble columns hold up a frescoed lintel. There's no door into the throne room, just the threshold created by the pillars but the weight of knowing what's on the other side is enough. Eva looks to Zelda, waiting to be told that it's time to proceed. A queen is announced when, and only when, she is ready for it. Zelda gives her the nod. It might be her first time visiting their castle but Decebal and Sorina are hardly unknown quantities there's no need for her to waste time gathering her stately persona together.

Eva hurries up the steps, only slowing down as her head comes into view of the room above them. She stands at the boundary, underneath the massive gilded and painted plaster lintel, and takes a breath before pitching her voice to carry perfectly through the space,

`I present to Their Majesties Decebal and Sorina, bastions of the north, Her Majesty the Lady Zelda, Queen of Hyrule and all its territories and dependencies, Bearer of Light and Keeper of Wisdom.'

Zelda waits for all her titles to be over. The first time someone announced her into a room it was sort of thrilling to hear them all but now it just feels like it takes an age for them to finish. Sweetly, Matei offers her his arm when she makes to walk up the steps. She takes it to be polite and because she knows it helps to feel useful. They walk up the stairs together, two pairs of booted feet in pleasant unison. A different but far from unwelcome kind of comfort from Willem's measured two paces behind her and surprisingly not unlike the first time she walked into Hyrule castle's grand hall arm in arm with Link. They tried very hard to outwardly make it look like Link was simply, gallantly lending her the use of his arm and not, as was really the case, using hers to keep himself steady and upright. So much of him had been so badly hurt but he still gamely played his part.

They glide over the threshold, years of deportment lessons showing through. Aside from anything else, at least they know how to make an entrance. Both of the long sides of the room are lined with floor to ceiling windows. Each one with a stained-glass crest at the centre. Spidery crystal chandeliers refract the abundant light dotting tiny rainbows over the floor. It's beautiful and simple and draws the eye so naturally to the two seated figures on the dais at the far end of the room. Decebal stands up as soon as their near enough for it not to feel awkward. He steps down, arms wide to greet her. Matei gently releases her arm and stays respectfully out of the way while his father sweeps Zelda into a welcome hug. Sorina laughs and steps down to join them,

`Put her down you old fool,' she swats him on the shoulder before reaching out to take Zelda's hands and kiss her on both cheeks. `I pray the journey went well enough?'

`It did thank you, the weather held out for us which was more than we were expecting.'

`Well, I hope your presence keeps it good although I fear it's going to turn on us soon.' Sorina glances at the sky, still blue if a little cloudy, through the window. `Not that it matters much, diplomacy is an indoor beast.'

`Speaking of such,' Decebal gestures to a door to the left of the thrones, `is it perhaps best to get the necessary business seen to straight away? There's tea to drink and papers to look at in the blue parlour here.'

Zelda nods, `I think we're passed standing on ceremony with one another, and I am in desperate need of a cup of tea.'

`Then we won't make you wait any longer.' Sorina walks arm in arm with Zelda this time, leading the way to the very aptly named, as it turns out, parlour. The walls are papered with a blue and white floral pattern reminiscent of a tea set Zelda saw once when she was younger. Decebal beckons for his son to follow him and closes the door behind everyone. Matei moves stiffly to a chair, his eyebrows pitched in such a way that makes it abundantly clear he wasn't expecting to be included. Tea is poured, business is begun.

`It's tit for tat at the moment. Every advance we make is balanced out by having to give way somewhere else.' Decebal's nose wrinkles, `and we've yet to hear about any survivors from the blast.'

`Oh.' She folds her hands in her lap, quenching their shaking by clasping them together. He's fine. He's strong and clever and he'll be fine. `No news might be good news though, better than. . . better than finding bodies. . .'

`Quite,' Everyone turns to look at Matei, who doesn't even look like he expected himself to say anything, `we've. . .ah, we've no reason to assume something terrible so. . . so, umm, perhaps we oughtn't. . .'

`Yes, yes, very true. Conclusions can only be made when all the facts are at hand.' Sorina sounds more sure than she looks. They all sound more sure than they look.

Zelda changes the subject, not seamlessly but no one really minds, `an emissary from Queen Pantae sought an audience with me a week ago.' Both husband and wife set down their tea cups and lean forwards, `the south rises again.'

Sorina grimaces wryly, `the Emperor must rue the day he decided to poke that bear.'

To date the only time the Empire met defeat was when it tried to sink its claws into the other shore of the Southern Sea. If you ask the Empire the withdrawal was tactical and because there is nothing of note or worth, only sand, across the water. If you ask anyone else it's because Pantae and her people are stronger, clever and more tenacious than anyone other nation in the known world. In Hylian the country beyond the sea is nicknamed the basin of humanity for a reason. Their civilisation and its history stretches back further than anyone could hope to imagine. It's often supposed if the Gerudo are an offshoot of it, a group of settlers that developed into their own entity. Regardless of whether or not that is the case Zelda is glad that relations between Hyrule and it have been kept smooth on the off chance that it is true.

`Do they mean to attack whilst the Empire's back is turned?' Sorina squeezes her husband's hand.

`I'm not sure, no specifics were mentioned. The emissary did say that we can expect out troubles to ease somewhat soon and that Queen Pantae feels that the Emperor is overdue another lesson.' Zelda cradles her empty tea cup, letting the residual heat seep into her fingers.

`They'll bankrupt themselves.' Matei sets down his cup to refill it, his eyes flick up when he realises no one else has filled the silence, `. . . well I mean, from what I can understand of how the Empire conducts war. . . not that I know much, I, ah, I just, well. . . from what I've understood from reports and textbooks and things, the Empire relies on vastly overwhelming numbers to win campaigns as quickly as possible. The infrastructure behind is entirely constructed to support this so it. . .well, it pisses away money and needs an almost constant stream of new conscripts coming from the colonies. They can't run a war on two fronts because they can't afford to divide the army up like that.'

`And if they try, and Goddesses know they'll try, they'll have to bleed the populace dry and risk rebellion in the colonies, who hardly need much of an excuse given how they've been treated, which they won't have the troops available to settle. . .'

`And so the Empire crumbles. . .'

Pale grey eyes and sky blue ones meet over the coffee table and joy wells up in her, for this shy, awkward, brilliantly clever man with his baby face and nervous blushes who never even expected to allowed in the room. All of the feelings rolling around inside tug her lips into a grin that spreads around the room.

`There is always hope,' Decebal says quietly, his kind face turned towards his son, `when you take the time to look.'


	18. Chapter 18

Merry that weird bit between Christmas and New Years everyone! I don't think there's anything in particular to brace yourself for in this one except for the occasional f-bomb but if I'm wrong please let me know.  
All the best, Freckles

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Everything is quieter, not necessarily better, but quieter. Pauw company shipped out a week ago, as soon as their Knight Commander was in a fit state to cope with the move. It's fair to say that morale is not the highest it's ever been. . . a not insignificant number of men from the two companies that stayed were vocal about wanting to do the opposite. Lord Innes-Ker, dour and grey under unshaven stubble had had the unenviable task of explaining to the man what exactly had gone on that afternoon and what would be happening in light of it. Van Lawick and Léon were the ones that saw to organising the departure of a quarter of the Hylian forces stationed at their garrison. Pauw saw to staying in bed mending broken bones. Link saw to staying in his room out of the way.

He stayed out of the way for as long as he could bear. They'd all agreed it was best until the tension and whispering arguments about who'd been right died down but it still drove him mad. Six paces, four paces and then six again, turn around, do it again. Forced into a u shape by the bed jutting out from the middle of the fourth wall. He could tell you exactly where he was along his repetitive little route by the squeak of the floorboards alone. He conjured patterns in the wood grain until they twisted his heart into a bloody little mess by reminding him of shapes someone else drew and he had to stop looking at them.

He screamed at night, he knew he did from the way he woke up tangled in blankets and slick with sweat. He wanted with a fury. Wanted to hold. Wanted to be held. Wanted to touch and wanted to be touched. Wanted to wake up breathless and clammy and aching and have someone to roll over to and share it with. To find a fruitful end to the fever. He wanted to sleep, and not dream, and to have someone there to make it right even if he did. There's nothing left in the room to throw. Or, nothing satisfactory at least. Clothes just tumble limply and soundlessly to the ground no matter how hard you hurl them. Eventually the boredom and the fever and the lingering fear that the only thing keeping him inside was cowardice drove him out.

Not that he went anywhere many people would see him. Horses, in general, don't judge people much or at least certainly not for their sexuality. He cups Epona's soft nose in his hands, feeling the warmth of her breathing trickling over his fingers. Sterren bumps against his side, leaning into him. They know things are wrong. Farore's breath he's lost count of the number of times they've known something is wrong long before he and Sheik ever did. He can feel the rise and fall of Sterren's flank against his side and back while Epona just keeps gently nuzzling into his hands. He slides his arms around her neck, all the dregs of the boy he was ages ago, eons ago, in another life, another time pull together and thrash around miserably. The water along his lash line doesn't spill though, it just gets blinked away.

He steps away, fingertips stretching out to give each horse one last pat before he hops the stall gate and leaves. Something needs to happen. Something weighty. Something big enough and forceful enough to sweep them all up and move them passed this. Something that's very unlikely to happen all by its self, so, he'll make it happen. He feels like wind that comes off the sea when summer is on the turn. Wherever he walks through the came he whips up hasty movement, the appearance of being busy and low, heated whispers like it scatters sand and scrubs and dead leaves across their garden and into the house. It's not bad, no one is stopping him or saying anything to him and some of them don't look at him while others look too long. He's there though. He's present, not hiding anymore. Every footfall is more sure than the last, more conscious, more him. He's back. He's done being a ghost haunting his own room.

He does a lap of the camp, stretching out overeager limbs and letting the men see him for what he still is, tall, strong, a little bruised around the edges but still here. He nods to those that call out `Captain' to him, warmth swelling and welling up in his bones. This is good. This is right. This can work. When he's closed up his little loop he heads back to the farmhouse. The big, rough map of the area, perpetually stretched out and pinned down by heavy mugs is what pulls him back there. He stands above it, fingers skimming over the surface, tracing out the lines showing where lands have been gained and lost over the past weeks and months. To the west the line remains steadfast, even moving forwards in some places. The east is shakier, sometimes edging forwards and others crashing back. Since their messy attempt at clearing out the camp a fortnight ago the immediate area has been reassuringly stable. The Empire favouring a relocation away from the burnt ruins than making an attempt at retribution.

Powys company are due to join them, replacing Pauw, in a few days. An older knight, a steady hand, with an excellent track record as a commanding officer. Idly he realises he should be a little insulted, Innes-Ker's choice smacks of a lack of faith in Link to regain proper control of the garrison, but it plays so well into his nascent plans that he doesn't care. Powys company is an expanded company, one and a half times the size of any ordinary one with an additional lieutenant knight commander. That combined with the current stability of their section of the front lines means that two, if not all three, of the existing companies here could be freed up. For what though? A push to the east? A scramble to regain territory lost? A sortie, to get as far as they can as fast as they can. Blood hums all the way to his fingertips.

`Motherfucker.' He thumps the map, eyes huge and teeth bared in a grin that looks like it could eat a man alive.

`I don't think the map is equipped to be pleasuring anyone let alone specifically someone's mother.' Léon dangles over the banister, `why are we insulting it anyway?'

`We're not, we're congratulating it.'

`Ah yes, motherfucker, that well-known word of encouragement.' After an eye roll of achingly theatrical proportions Léon comes the rest of the way down the stairs and slops himself into one of the chairs left untucked from the table. `So why, pray tell, do we owe our faithful map congratulations?'

Link leans forwards, long fingers splaying out on the table top and crumpling the paper underneath, `it's taking us east.'

Van Lawick agreed to the logic behind it. Van der Renne consented and offered to spare them some scouts. Innes-Ker just asked him if he thought it was the right thing to do. He does, he honestly does, maybe though not strictly because the men need it. He needs it. The idea wraps around him like a Goddess damn forest fire and he's got no desire to try and fight it back. They stare at him like sheep might at a dog, wary, watchful, resigned to the high probability that something bad is going to happen. There's an art to pitching your voice to address a crowd. Loud enough to be heard but not to tear your throat up and leave it gritty and sore. At least he doesn't have to shout over the sounds of men fighting, and screaming, and dying.

`Firstly I want to address the recent arrival of Sir Powys and company.' He nods towards Powys, inclining his head low enough to be respectful to the older man. Powys nods back, a gentle tilt forward of the head, acknowledging and polite. `Their arrival has presented us with an interesting opportunity. Our garrison, no, you because there is no garrison without the men that make it, have secured, protected and defended the front here tirelessly and with the strength and fury that defines the Hylian army. Now that it is stable, and the Empire will always have doubts about bringing their petty squabbles here to match themselves against us.' The first verbal pebble hits the surface of the lake of men standing in front of him, he watches the ripples skate out to the edges.

`We will take that strength and that fury, your strength and fury, and deliver it direct to the Empire. They may think they can rake and ravage the land to the east. They may think they can batter and beleaguer our fellow soldiers, our Hylian brothers and sisters, at the garrisons to the east. They may think that they're winning, that they're tightening their grip on this good, green nation, but they are wrong.' He roars, all golden hair and sharp teeth. The words thunder in his throat and lungs. He's a giant, a god, a champion. He's dripping with his own virtues, courage and steeliness and simple, whole-hearted fervour, raining them into a river on the earth beneath his feet to go and suck the men into it's undertow.

He's a lit match, and they're touch paper. A spark and a fuse. A lightning storm and a paper-dry forest. The thunder ripping out of his lungs sinks into theirs. A murmur becomes a chatter. The chatter turns into a call and the call to a shout. A thumping, guttural, bass chant.

`East,' they roar their lion-call for him.

`As a holy hammer we will strike them.'

`East, east,' hundreds of feet and hundreds of fists beat in time with hundreds of hearts.

`With Din at our backs, Farore in our souls and Naryu our hearts we will drive them out.'

`East, eastwards for the Goddesses,' one voice from countless mouths.

`Are you with me?'

`Yes.' The staccato syllable rings back to him, the whole farm yard dancing to his tune.

`Are you with me?'

`Yes.' One mind and one being, they're his, they're all his.

`Then we ride at first light.'

Noise. Pitch dark, deep, earth-shifting noise. Strains of lark song fly above the baying of hounds and the swell of a raging ocean, the bass crash and boom of canon fire and earthquakes. An army harmonising with itself, orchestrating their own cacophonous call to arms. It hums in his ears and his skull and his blood. It fizzes down to his fingertips as they clutch the air, searching for a sword hilt to settle around. His chest heaves, his lungs drowning him in the thick euphoria. It's a good enough mimic for the euphoria he's been wanting for. Close enough to the feel of hot skin under his hands, of breath against his ear and cheek and neck. Close enough to smug possessiveness of seeing marks sucked onto collar bones in the yellow light of a morning. Close enough to the slick silk of someone else under him, around him, in him. Oh, he needs this, and, as it turns out, so do they.

He's more mud than man now. A pair of bright-sky eyes surrounded by ingrained dirt and filth and dull, greasy scraped-back hair. It's so fucking good. He loves it, loves that he's doing things, out here, in the middle of pissing nowhere. They march, and camp, and march again until the find their prey and then they descend like a Goddess damn plague. Biting and snarling and cutting and wounding like wolves taking down a moose. Then, as soon as the corpse is stuttering on the ground, they leave just like they arrived, leaving it to go cold alone, and they march and camp and march again until it's time to do it all over again. They sweep into the friendly garrisons they find to cheers and pomp and a surprising amount of people willing to flirt shamelessly with Link after a drink or two. It's flattering, up to a point just the right side of overtly suggestive, and easy enough for him to politely decline and extricate himself from.

The further they go the fewer garrisons they come across and the more occupied villages. They're harder for him, for all for them, than any of them expected. Foolish, with hindsight, ideas that riding into a town here would be like riding into one back home died the first time they did. All it does is bring back uncomfortable old memories for all of them. Malnutrition, sickness, sunken, dead eyes staring at them from windows and doorways, waiting to see if they're going to be just the same as what had come before. They've all seen this before. Plenty of them hoped they'd never have to see it again.

They tread gently through these places. Soft steps, soft hands and hearts. They spare what food and medicine they can, and help repair some of the damage left by the Empire and even themselves if they've had to fight the enemy out. It's the children that catch on Link's conscience and heart strings. Such small faces shouldn't look so weary with the world already. Such small faces shouldn't look like his did at that age. He lays bright-coloured, hard, boiled-sugar sweets in their hands, smiling at them from under the layer of dust permanently stuck to his face. Some smile back, others look blankly between his face and the sweet lying on their palm. He wishes that he could have brought chocolate but it would have bloomed, the fats and sugars separating out and crystallising in ugly blotches on the surface, long before he'd have gotten here.

He tries to talk to them but the language barrier looms large between them. Sometimes one of the villagers will know a little Hylian and some of the soldiers know a word or two of the northern language but it's not enough. Quickly everyone falls back on pantomime and sketches on scraps of paper or drawn with a twig on the earth. Undignified but effective and, honestly, as long as no one tries the talking loudly and slowly shtick he really doesn't care. He's managed to learn thank you so far, and hello, but he still struggles to wrap his tongue and teeth around please and I'm sorry properly. Still, however much or little they understand each other, he does his best, between fighting for more lives than just his own and nights given more to being awake than asleep, to leave these places a little better then how he found them.

Currently, they're hunkered in a coppice, thankful for the tree cover, a few hundred meters of pasture between them and another farming village. The fields are empty, no cows or sheep or crops or anything, just blank green space. Blank green space that would let any Imperial troops see them coming before they'd even gone four steps. Link grinds his teeth. Anders wrinkles his nose at the creaking and the unfortunate terrain.

`Any ideas sir?'

Link sighs, letting the tension out of his jaw, `not a single fucking one Anders, not a Goddess damn one. . . well not a good one at least.'

`Care to outline the bad ones?' Anders' shrugs when Link raises an eyebrow at him, `a bad plan might be better than no plan at all.'

`Just going in all is hardly much of a plan at all so that still leaves us at square one.'

`Then maybe we shouldn't do anything.'

`No.' Link knows the crinkles at the corners of Anders' eyes mean he's doing exactly what the colour sergeant expected of him, what he was coaxing him to do, a fact he's utterly at peace with. `No, we go in, we go in and do what we promised to, we drive the Empire out.'


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter the nineteenth, featuring moderate fisticuffs, a smattering of angst, a little bit of blood and then something actually nice happening for a change. As ever, I hope it proves an enjoyable read and maybe let me know either way.  
Cheers, Freckles

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People don't actually need to breathe, do they? It's totally one of those optional biological functions like needing to eat and sleep and piss. Yeah, who needs breathing. He's a Goddess damn breath camel anyways; can go for weeks and weeks on just one inhalation. Ha, take that rest of the world's population. . . okay, maybe he does need air. The catching in his throat and the phantom pressing on his chest were trying to tell him that much and it looked like thinking loudly enough to drown them out wasn't going to work anymore. Not when the ticking of his brain was getting that addled. He presses his teeth into his lip. A few more seconds, please Nayru a few more seconds.

Hobnailed footsteps creak away from him. The floorboards around the carefully concealed airing cupboard door easing in a breath of their own as the weight pressing down on them moves away. He lets his arms slacken around the small body cradled in his lap. Viorica's hands slide away from her nose and mouth a fraction, letting her trickle in a few long, drawn out and silent breaths. He follows suit, refusing to let his body take the big, gasping gulps it wants to. The soldiers thunder down the stairs. He rests his forehead on the top of Viorica's head. She threads her fingers into his, squeezing, telling him she's alright. They settle in for a comfortable wait now. No aching, tense muscles or burning lungs this time.

When grey normality settles over the village again Ioana comes to gentle ease the newly hidden door open. Viorica crawls out first, stretching out limbs that have been coiled up for too long. Sheik shuffles out after her, twisting himself around like a cat in the sun, relishing the comparative wealth of space outside of the cupboard. It's not as bad as it used to be. They've both gotten used to sharing the little patch of darkness and air, they've had plenty of chances to practice after all. As have all the other Hylians stranded in the village. Each and every one of them well acquainted with the confines of their hastily thrown together hiding places. At least they'd all had some time to enjoy the afterglow of the raid before a new kind of shit show rolled into town.

Another, much bigger, gaggle of Imperial soldiers had swarmed on the manor hous,e a fortnight or so after the Hylians had decided to drop by unannounced, only to find it oddly lacking in both allies and supplies. There'd been no way to hide the signs of the fight that had taken place, not after the fire damage and so, naturally, suspicion had fallen on the little farm village. Luckily the charcoal burner had seen the scouts when they were still a way out and sent his daughter hurtling into the village. Between wheezing breathes she'd garbled the warning to everyone she could find and the desperate scramble to hide all the people and things that shouldn't be there began.

The soldiers drew lots to see who the job of dealing with the Imperial prisoners fell to. Even the ones who'd escaped the tainted duty didn't feel like they'd ever be able to walk passed the slurry pit and the patch of ground in front of it free from guilty pangs. Those left-over set to clearing the cow shed of any signs of life before they all dispersed into an eclectic bunch of hiding places smeared around the villager's houses and the farm buildings. The last part has become a regular pass time of late. Either because the manor house still makes for a convenient garrison or because they couldn't shake the suspicion that something odd was afoot in the village the Imperial troops hunkered down. Ever since regular patrols of soldiers would wash through every couple of days like a very unwelcome flood forcing Sheik and the others to scuttle back to their hidey holes.

Annoying, yes. Frustrating, endlessly. Stressful, more than he had words for, but here they were, cornered. Nowhere to go but forwards but with far too few of them for that to ever work out. He twines his arms above his head, easing out the kinks in his muscles, there's no use in chasing the same thoughts and arguments around his head one more time. He already knows all the pitfalls and dead ends that leads to. They need something clever but it just so turns out that something clever isn't interested in making itself apparent to him. Eight years ago he'd have gone half mad by now, tearing into himself for not being able to just conjure a well-crafted, complex plan out of thin air. Hells, the man he was only two years ago would have felt the urge to take the frustration out on his skin by now but, he just isn't that man anymore. He let that man slip away, if only so that he never had to see the way Link's eyebrows pull together and his lips turn down and his eyes flick away every time he sees those scars.

He's tired, and not alone, and so much on the back foot that he doesn't even remember what the front foot looks like. There's nothing, not even a scrap of an idle idea, that might grow into what they need. Just the careful, almost inaudible little footsteps syncopated with his as they follow Ioana downstairs again. They follow him downstairs in his own cottage, jumping the bottom step and squeezing a raspy complaint out of the floorboards. Cutlery clatters onto the table, three sets, one smaller than the other two. Sunlight lances through the window over the sink, full of promises for a scorching afternoon, and haloing around a golden blonde head and turning the thin skin of a pair of long ears orangey-pink. He's pulled over to the table, thin child's fingers wrapping around his. The two of them sit but he falters before he falls into his chair, watching them, smiling, talking, pouring juice into a glass and spilling it over the pitted wooden table top. His foot goes searching for a tread that doesn't exist, he stumbles into the kitchen after Ioana and that morning bursts like a soap bubble.

Viorica gives him a look and he shrugs,

`never give stairs trust, they lie to us.' He taps the side of his nose, winking like it's some sort of secret insider information.

She laugh-huffs a lungful of air out of her nose and sticks her tongue out at him, `only to people who don't pay attention.'

Sheik clasps a hand to his chest, `your words, they do such pain!' He sinks to his knees making overly enthusiastic dying noises and keels over right in the way of where Viorica was trying to get passed him, `dead.'

She hops over him, `then I shall just have to eat your dinner then.'

`Savage,' he chuckles to himself as he clambers up off the floor and follows her into the kitchen.

They spend another four hours in the cupboard the next day and have two blissful days of relative freedom before cramming themselves back in for another three. After that the shit really hits the fan. The alarm goes up when the butcher's son hurtles into the village, skidding over the loose earth of the central square. He wheezes what might have been words at his mother, gripping the front of her sturdy butchering apron, gasping and sputtering as he tries to speak as quickly as he can. As soon as she's managed to gather what he was trying to tell her she sits him down to catch his breath and sprints to the bakery. Ioana jumps when the backdoor slams open, bouncing back after crashing into the wall.

`Katja what's wrong? What happened?' She stands up, dropping the skirt she was mending, letting the heavy wool crumple on the floor.

`They're coming, all of them, they have Luca's boys.' Katja leans against the doorframe, trying her best to calm her breathing.

`No,' Ioana's fingers lace over her mouth, as if keeping the words in will stop what Katja said from being true. She crosses the kitchen, boots snapping over the tiled floor, and calls out from the doorway,

`Sheik,' he pokes he head out from the living room, `you must take Viorica and go upstairs right away.'

He doesn't have to ask why or clarify what she means by upstairs. Upstairs means into the cupboard and there are precious few reasons for them to need to go there. He hears Viorica set down the slate and chalk she'd been doodling on and watches her walk passed him only to pause at the bottom of the stairs, hand held out, waiting for him. He lets her lead him up the steps. Opens the hidden door to the cupboard mechanically, his fingertips feeling out the disguised catches, and shuffles inside. There's a few moments of shuffling and repositioning after Viorica climbs in while they work out where to put their elbows and then he reaches around her to shimmy the door back into place as best he can. It won't close completely unless something refastens the catches on the outside. Ciprian or Ioana or even sometimes Toma see to that. They wait, and they wait, and they keep waiting.

After probably less time than it feels like it's been but still more time than they want to have spent trying not to breath a piercing, rattling wail worms its way into their hideaway from outside. Sheik feels Viorica shudder, curling in on herself as if it might make the noise stop. His eyebrows press into a thick frown. Things are very wrong. Palpably, tangibly wrong. He presses against the cupboard door, easing it open again. Viorica tugs on his shirt, shaking her head, switching to pawing at his arm when he doesn't stop. She gives up when he starts shuffling out, utching them both around until he can wiggle free, and just huddles at the back of the cupboard as far away from the open door as possible.

He stays low, treading whisper quite over to the window. He stops, head kept carefully below the sill, breath held, trying to hear what's going on below them in the square. The glass and wood and brick don't seem inclined to help him much, muffling anything he might have heard. He screws his eyes shut for a moment and slowly lifts his head until he can just see over the window sill. There are so many people down there. The entire village, and what must be practically the whole of the Imperial garrison from the manor. The one with the most ornate helmet, and so likely the one in charge, gestures aggressively at the villagers, his mouth moving in short, sharp barks. To his right and slightly behind him is another solider, his fists gripping two boys by the scruffs of their necks. The smaller one stands crying limply while the bigger one flaps like a snagged fish. He recognises them, they used to come and loiter around the barn full of Hylian soldiers with some of the other village children, occasionally begging to be shown `cool army things'.

He sinks back down, resting his back against the wall. The Goddesses only know what trouble they've gotten themselves into that warrants that many Imperial troops marching into the village. Sheik bumps his head on the wall, once gently and then again much harder. His fingers curl into fists, hands shaking, as a low growl slips between his lips. Two village boys straying a little too far from home doesn't cause all this. The Imperial soldiers finding out about a stray gaggle of hiding Hylians does though. They blabbed, the boys blabbed. They got caught messing about too near the manor, got frightened and let the bloody cat out of the Goddess damned bag and there's fuck all he can do about it.

He chances another glance out of the window. The boys' parents are standing in front of Fancy Hat now, the mother talking quickly, desperately. The older boy struggles again and gets shaken forcefully for his troubles. Then the man holding him just lets him go. The boy stares bewildered over his shoulder as the soldier jerks his now free hand up to his neck. A long, thin piece of wood capped with tawny fletching protrudes from it. Every set of eyes watching follows the line of the arrow back in the direction it must have come from. Another one sails into view, burying itself next to its sibling in the man's neck. He lets the other boy go. None of this makes any sense. Who the ever-loving fuck would fire on this many Imperial troops by themselves? More arrows arc into the square, shiny armoured men running in in their wake.

He's halfway standing, fists raised in the air before he realises how bad an idea cheering would be right now. He spins on his heel, dropping into a crouch walk and pads to the stairs as quickly as he can. Viorica blinks at him as he passes. He canters down the stairs as quietly as he can and into the kitchen and jams his arm as far up the fireplace flue as he can. His fingers grope amongst the ashes, searching out the ledge inside. He finds it, fingertips skating over the bundle balancing on it. He tugs it down and unwraps it. All his remaining knives glint dully up at him from the dirty cloth. He gathers them up, sliding them into his boots and belt. He keeps a small one out, flipping it from hand to hand, testing the weight.

Back up the stairs. He knees down in front of the open cupboard door.

`What is happening?' She whispers to him, the sound barely making it over her lips.

`Lots of Imperial, but more Hylians too. You must stay, don't leave here. I am a lot sorry but,' he throws his gaze over to the window, `but I cannot stay in. Here,' he holds the little knife out to her, handle first.

She looks at it, fingers reaching out and then drawing back again, `I don't know how.'

`Good, you shouldn't, I'm sorry I. . .I'm sorry. . .but if someone not friend comes and. . . and-'

`and I will be brave and fierce like Mama.' Her lower lip is shaking and both of them can feel a wetness gathering along their lashes. She takes it, clutching it to her chest.

`I will come back.' His hand still floats in front of him even though it's empty now. He clenches it into a painfully tight fist before lunging forward and dragging Viorica into a smothering hug, `I will come back.'

He lets her go and shuts the cupboard door, sliding all the secret latches shut. He hurtles through the house and out the backdoor, on the opposite side of the house to the square. Messy noises wash around the corners and puddle at his feet. People shouting. People screaming. Metal on metal. Thudding and clattering. Blood thundering in his chest and ears and toes and fingertips. He turns around, gaze utterly focussed on the bakery wall. Thank Nayru, or Farore, or Din or whoever is responsible for buildings for making them so damned easy to climb. He hauls himself up and onto the thatch, staying low to the reeds. He peers over the crest. Familiar, bloody chaos spreads itself over the square. The villagers have scattered, a scant few staying around to help. Blessedly familiar uniforms mingle in with the utilitarian Imperial ones. He could kiss whoever's company this is.

Deep breath, then, over the top and a mostly controlled slide down the other side. No one's looking up so he tumbles into the fray like an unexpected descending angel. If angels were skinny Sheikah boys carrying too many knives. He lashes out, the sharp end of his blades and his wits his only armour. He's a jack-in-the-box, the handle finally turned enough times to let him explode out. He leaps at an Imperial soldier, knee colliding solidly with his chest and knife drawing smoothly over his throat. There's fire in his blood. His muscles are singing. He's wheeling and sweeping and twisting. He's untouchable. Something warm spurts over his cheek. Something cracks under his fist. He bares his teeth, nothing is stopping him now.

Two of his fingers are broken. His left eye feels like it'll be swollen shut by tomorrow and it hurts to breath in too deeply. It's over though, it's done, and he's still standing. Just about. The little village doesn't look like a pastoral painting anymore. The little central square churned up and stained and littered with dead and dying Imperial soldiers. A hand settles on his shoulder.

`All in one piece?' Léon's gives him a once over, shrugging when nothing is obviously beyond repair.

`As far as I can tell.' Link pushed his hair off of his clammy forehead, `any idea what all that to-do was about?'

`Not the foggiest but I doubt those boys would have come out of it well if we'd let it carry on.'

`Mmmm,' Link rakes his gaze over the clouds of men, mentally auditing them. There don't seem to be alarmingly fewer than when they started.

He turns around, glancing down the side streets he can see, adding to his internal tally. Léon makes an odd noise beside him, coughing up dust. Link spots van Lawick turning on the spot, doing exactly what he is. They nod at each other before van Lawick's eyes drift over Link's shoulder. Léon reaches out and paws at him, he bats the hand away, desperately trying not to lose count. It comes back though, more insisted, tugging on his elbow.

`What?'

`Turn around.'

Link makes an ugly noise at the back of his throat but obliges. He follows Léon outstretched, pointing finger. Blonde hair, paler than his own. Tan skin, darker than his own. Long limbs, graceful without even trying to be so. Wide shoulders, slender waist. Worried eyebrows and tight lips. Feet pound over the earthen square. His feet. He tries to make a sound but the only things that comes out in an incoherent keening. Eyes as red as his are blue flick up to meet his gaze. A wordless call to match his own dribbles over wobbling lips. Hands stretch out to him. He slides between those arms, curling his around a long neck that's often worn the marks of his affections. Chest hammers into chest. Heartbeats knock against one another, falling into perfect time. He fits his fingers around cheeks that are thinner than they used to be and pulls quaking lips against his. They're dry and rough and hungry. He whines through his nose when a tongue gently eases into his mouth and coaxes his into action.

Someone whistles. Then someone else cheers and to crown the ruining of the moment someone tells them to `get a room'. Link feels Sheik laugh, his chest rattling and breathy chuckles ghosting over his lips. It doesn't matter. He doesn't care. Every part of him is sky high right now and nothing, absolutely nothing, is spoiling this for him. He presses another kiss to Sheik's lips, misses a little and mostly gets his chin, laughs and turns to face the rest of the square. The Hylians roar, clattering armoured fists against shields and breast plates. Léon wiggles his eyebrows at them as van Lawick nods his approval. He snags an arm around Sheik's waist. He feels like he just won the whole Goddess damned war.


	20. Chapter 20

Hello friends, I hope you are in the mood for fluff because if so, oh boy, do I have the chapter for you. Anyways, thanks for stopping by (and an extra thanks to the rad people who've left reviews, you guys are wonderful) I hope you enjoy this and have a great weekend.  
Cheers, Freckles

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The cupboard door creaks open and daylight spills as far in as it can get before the shadows refuse to move any further back. Five thin fingers tighten around the leather-bound hilt of the knife hastily thrust into them two hours ago. Two pairs of booted feet press down the floorboards on the other side of the opening. She wedges herself back into the corner, trying to be as small and unassuming as possible. One set of feet shift and a knee comes into view resting on the floor as someone bends to peer inside the cupboard. Mussed up pale bangs and a dirty, familiar, tanned face bobs below the upper edge of the door hole. She launches herself forwards. Dropping the knife with a clatter, barrelling into him and sending them both sprawling across the floor. She can feel his chest bounce erratically with laughter as she squeezes it as hard as she can.

`Hello as well little one, I am very happy to see you safe here.' He hugs her back, body still quaking with chuckles.

She pulls her head away from where it was pressed to his chest, a grin tugging at her lips, `you said it right.'

`Did I?'

`Yes,' she nods so hard it rocks her whole body.

He winces when the motion makes her knee dig harder into his side. A sharp gasp spills over her lips and she scrambles off him, folding in half to look at the place the pain seemed to be coming from. There's no stain on his shirt she can see but pulling the fabric up a bit reveals a huge, black-purple bruise mottled over the bottom of his ribs all the way down to his hip. Her eyebrows press together as her lips draw into a line.

`It is okay, I have before had worse.' He pats her on the head, smoothing down some of her hair that had tangled during her explosive exit from the cupboard. `I want to explain you to someone.'

`Explain me?' Every time he seems to get the hang of one word he manages to lose track of another. She follows the direction of his gaze anyway, looking up to take in the rest of the body attached to the other pair of feet.

It's a prince. There's a real live, fairy-tale prince standing there. Albeit a prince with a black eye but still. He looks ever so tall, standing there while the two of them are still spread over the floor. Even with the mud and dust and other things spatter on his clothes and skin he could have stepped off the page of one of the books her mother reads for her. . . used to read for her. . . Something hard settles in her throat. She swallows dryly, hoping it'll go away again soon. The prince smiles at her, his unbruised, perfectly sky blue eye crinkling at the corner. He crouches down, settling onto his haunches so he's not towering over them anymore.

`Hello, my name is Link, it's very nice to meet you especially since Sheik has told me so much about you.'

He talks in Hylian, like the other soldiers. Some of the words are ones she learnt from her governess but others are just oddly accented noises. At least the first part was simple enough, he was telling her what he's called and the polite response is for her to introduce herself back.

`Hello, m-my name is Viorica.' Even though Hylian is not vastly dissimilar to her own language the syllables still fall oddly off of her tongue. The back of her neck starts to get hot as she becomes more and more certain she just made a terrible mess of such a simple sentence.

`Viorica is a lovely name, does it mean something?'

The warmth on her neck spreads up her face and into her cheeks. She stares blankly back at Link, her eyebrows hitched halfway up her forehead. Sheik shifts around behind her, pulling his legs in so he's sitting with them neatly crossed underneath him.

`Oh, ah, yes, he is asking if your name meaning has?'

She cranes her neck to look at Sheik, the blazing blush dying down a little now she knows what was asked. `Oh, yes it-' she starts and turns around, almost unbalancing herself, realising she ought to be addressing Link, `it mean-means, ummm, it is. . .' Tomato red again she turns back around and slips into her native language, `I don't. . . I don't know how to say it. It comes from the word for bluebell.'

`Bluebell?' Sheik scrunches his nose, unsure of the word.

Viorica's finger fidget anxiously, she turns to Link who looks as baffled as they do and back to Sheik again, `it is a plant, with little blue flowers like up turned cups.'

`Up turned cups? Um. . . ooooh. . . I see, yes, bluebells.' The sentence morphs from one language into the other half way through. Sheik looks over her shoulder to see if Link has managed to work out what was going on. He nods appreciatively,

`Very pretty.' He smiles again, which does more to convey his meaning than the words.

Viorica tries smiling back, a nervous tilt to the corners of her lips. He beams. The same sunshine grin Sheik does when he's pleased and telling her she's been a good, brave, clever girl. She likes that smile. Mama used to have one just like it as well. She wants to wear it too, when she's grown up, and she would hug people the way Papa did and things would all be alright. Her bottom lip wobbles. She bites it, chewing gently to remind it whose boss. Brave girls don't cry. Not in front of black-eyed princes. Maybe later, after bed time like always, she would clutch onto Sheik's neck and let them all go. All the tears and the miserable little hiccoughs and embarrassing snotty sniffles. He never minded that she always made such a mess of his shirt. Just held onto her, stroking her hair or singing quietly in that lilting language of his.

Link cocks his head, eye flicking behind to catch Sheik's, his smile drooping fractionally. She blinks at him, scrambling to work out what her face had been doing to chase the sun-smile away.

`Ah, of course! I've got something to show you.' Link talks over her head, and suddenly rockets up to his full height, `I think you might like this too.' He looks down at her again, and holds out a hand.

She reaches out to take it, hesitating midway, perhaps he wants to take them somewhere. Floorboards creak as Sheik shifts his weight and stands up as well. He pats her on the shoulder, encouragement enough for her to slide her small hand into Link's and pull herself to her feet. He takes them to the stairs, down through the kitchen and out of the back door. Ioana is standing out in the village square relaying information between more Hylian soldiers and the other villagers. No one particularly seems to notice as they walk by.

Link leads them away from the buildings and out towards the drably empty cow pastures. Sheik vaults the fence, two graceful, bouncy steps all the run-up he needs before sailing over and landing with a flourish. He turns around, dipping into a bow as Link laughs, letting go of Viorica's hand to clap softly. She sets a foot on the lowest wooden slat, testing it before committing to climbing over. It's old and patches of moss and lichen paint it a kind of dappled green-grey. It also makes it a less than steady surface. Her foot slips as soon as she puts her weight on it sending her tumbling backwards. Something vastly more comfortable than the lumpy earth meets her back. Two heads hover over her, each with eyebrows drawn in concern, one attached to the body whose hands are holding her up and the other paused awkwardly half-way back over the fence.

`Sorry. . . ' she mumbles, heart thundering and cheeks rushing pink again.

`You have no need of sorry, are you well?' Sheik wafts a hand at her, not quite able to reach far enough to make contact.

`Yes, I am, I just slipped is al-oh,' the ground suddenly stops being under her feet. She kicks, flapping like a fish in surprise, until she realises it's Link lifting her up.

`Upsy-daisy Little Flower, over we go.'

`What? What about a flower?' They're words she feels like she should know but they don't seem to make any sense.

`Ah, umm, I'm sorry, I don't. . .I don't understand.'

She cranes her neck to look at him, blank look meeting blank look. He blinks at her, lips parting on the off chance that more words might come out and make everything better. They don't. A snort explodes over the fence at them, Sheik's wonky, amused grin at its epicentre.

`Whatever am I supposed to do with the pair of you?'

`Oh I don't know, how about help?' Link scrunches his lips to one side, treating Sheik to the most unimpressed look he can manage.

Sheik shrugs, `now see, that would be the grown-up, sensible answer.'

`Ah, of course, Goddesses forfend you choose that one.' Link starts lifting Viorica over the fence in earnest. She tucks her legs up to make it easier for him, her head ratchetting back and forth between the two of them trying to follow the conversation.

`I am so glad you know me so well.' Sheik turns around, motioning for Viorica to cling onto his back.

She wraps her arms around his neck, careful not to squeeze. He turns his head, smiling at her despite the awkward angle. She can't help herself from asking,

`what were you talking about?'

`That I am silly and that Link seems would like to call you Little Flower.'

`Oh,' they watch Link make light work of vaulting the fence, waiting for him to take the lead again. `Because of my name?'

`I think yes. . . you do not like it?' Sheik shimmies her up his back a bit more, arms tightening to stop her sliding back down.

`No, I. . . it's nice. . . I have. . .I've never had another name before.'

`Hmmm, maybe also I should use it then?'

She purses her lips, staring over his shoulder. Link is slightly in front of them, he keeps glancing back like they might disappear, and she ends up meeting his eye. He smiles, at her, at Sheik, at both of them. It's not a sun beam, it's more like fire light, softer, warmer, like home. He reaches a hand out and Sheik shifts her weight on his back to stretch his own out and take it. Link's smile gets even softer, gooey and warm around the edges, as their fingers tangle together. It's well practiced, the slide of palm over palm, the settling in of thumbs to stroke over knuckles, the gentle squeeze to lock it all into place.

Viorica squeezes Sheik's shoulders, resting her cheek down onto her arm, `yes please, I think I would like that.'

Link leads them passed the tree line and into a copse that borders the pasture land. They don't have to go in far before Link is hailing other Hylians. A spattering of heads emerge from between the tress each one begging news from Link. He waves them off, wading through the deluge of questions one at a time. They seem satisfied with the answers if a little peeved to have missed the combat. They're coming into what is or was a camp, that much is obvious. What is a little harder to fathom, in her opinion, is why Link brought them here? It must make more sense to Sheik because he gasps gently and starts walking faster.

They make a beeline for where one of the Hylian soldiers sits next to a make shift corral of horses. A very pretty chestnut horse with a white star edges its way to the front. Another, darker blue roan one follows it. Sheik makes another odd, whiney noise. She can feel him wanting to move much faster than he feels he can with her on his back. Link just laughs and reaches out to help her down. As soon as she's half slid, half fallen to her own feet again Sheik is off. He skitters to a stop in front of the darker horse that had nudged its way to the front of the pack. He holds his hands out to it for it to smell but instead it just steps forward and bumps his chest with its nose. Sheik throws his arms around its neck and presses his face into its mottled fur.

Link holds out a hand for her to take, `that's his horse Sterren, they've missed each other.'

Viorica thinks she's understood but double checks anyway, `that horse is belonging to Sheik yes?' She isn't completely sure she's used the right words but Link is nodding so she can't have done too badly.

`Uh-huh, would you like to go and say hello?'

She frowns while she goes over the sentence again in her head. Hopefully saying yes means she gets to go and pet the horses, `yes please.'

They walk over, hand in hand. Sheik leans away from Sterren when they get close making room for Viorica to hold a small hand out, palm up, like she does. . .used to do. . .with her pony. Sterren noses into her hand gently, huffing hot breathes over it. She doesn't mean to start crying, it just sort of happens. Wet little rivulets trail down her cheeks as her nose starts running to match. She turns around, water faced, to the men behind her. Link looks horrified, eyes wide with panic, staring between her and Sheik. Sheik kneels down, holding his arms out for her. She bundles herself into them.

She misses Roza. Misses her round, contrary, sweet, impossible pony. She misses the stable and the loud boy that worked there. She misses the smell of it. Hay and polish and muck. Heaving sobs shake her. Her lips feel pinched down at the corners. Her eyes are sore. There's snot on Sheik's shirt. She misses. She aches and howls and misses. Papa, in his shirt sleeves, leading her along on Roza reminding her to keep her heels and hands down. Papa telling her she's doing well. Papa cheering while she trots around on her own. Papa calling her brave after climbing back on when she fell. Papa.

`Shh Little Flower, shhhh, it is alright, cry if you have need to.' Sheik holds her close.

Link joins them, kneeling on the leafy ground, `I'm sorry Little Flower, I didn't mean to upset you, I. . .I'm sorry.'

She peels her face away from Sheik's shoulder, it's a blotchy, red mess dissected by shiny, damp tear tracks. She sniffs gutterally. He looks so lost. So much like he'd done a bad thing. So much like a broken prince. Her shaky fingers grip hold of his shirt and pull. His shoulder drops as soon as he understands. He puts his arms around both of them, tucking Sheik's head under his chin. They stay like that until all the sobs dry up and Viorica agrees to another piggy-back ride to the village.

She feels embarrassed later, when it's dark and she should be asleep. She imagines that her face is probably a little red lying in the darkness remembering all the times Mama told her big girls don't cry over silly things. Crying over a horse is probably a silly thing. She hopes crying over Papa isn't.

Someone rolls over noisily on the other side of the room. Sheik? No, he never normally makes any noise. Link then. He does it again. Then again, getting faster each time. A sound like a ghost wail makes her grip the blanket a bit tighter. More whines and keening noises spill over. Then a shouted word. The thrashing sounds gigantic in the dark. Another shout. Another cry. Then a new noise, a different one, a familiar one. This one is Sheik. He sounds like he did earlier when she was crying. Gentle, safe, calm. There's a gasp, a tumble and thud. Sheik says something, it's quiet and she can't understand. Link cokes a reply, his voice wavers, wobbles, then breaks. He's crying. Just like she did. Just like she has almost every night since. . . since. . . since then. Oh. Ooh. She listens to the muffled sobs and Sheik's soothings. Maybe she isn't so wrong after all.


	21. Chapter 21

Hey Listen! Or, y'know, read but whatever. Shit son, we're 55,000+ words in and you're still here you glorious example of humanity you. Thank you so unbearably much, you're wonderful and if anyone says otherwise, so help me, I will fight them. Anyways, have a super weekend,  
cheers, Freckles

* * *

They were in a tent. Although calling it a tent felt like a bit of a disservice. It was huge, almost occupying the same floor space as the ground floor of their cottage, and sectioned off by thick, sea blue curtains into the suggestion of rooms. Still unpacked things are propped in the corners and against the carved wooden poles holding the canopy aloft. A fold away table stands slightly off centre in the largest, central area of the tent-house. Equally portable chairs cluster around it and maps and sheaves of paper pile up and slide off of the top. The odd sheet or two flutter to the ground largely unnoticed. Their attention instead pulled to the group of people between them and the table.

It's little wonder the tent is so big, given that three royals, one field marshal, an ambassador and a champion are all standing in it. Sheik drops back a pace or two behind Link, suddenly feeling awkward at the lack of his own title. The soldier who had been guiding them stops a respectful distance away from the assembled great and good, sweeping a hand across to indicate that they should carry on. Link takes a few more purposeful steps before clearing his throat and making their presence known,

`Your majesties, Lord Innes-Ker, Ambassador Behzadi.' He bends his head, inclining it deeply enough to be polite but not so low as to dip into a bow.

All five of them turn, gracefully but far from in synch, a few of them cup earthen wear mugs between ringed fingers. Sheik recognise three of the faces and can make a pretty solid guess about which of the remaining two is the ambassador. It's not hard to see why various scholars posit that the Gerudo are descended from a group of settlers from the southern lands. Both races share the same statuesque build, with the top of the ambassador's head tickling the tent roof, and dark skin tone much more suited to the southern sun than the pale pastiness of the Hylians. The bright red hair seems to be exclusively a Gerudo trait though. The ambassador's long, curly hair and beard are about as black as Sheik's own hair is pale. Honestly, he's a bit jealous of the beard. All of his attempts at facial hair have been disastrous, sparse, wispy patches that are better not thought about. Link can grow a beard because of course he can, it's not fair.

Zelda gasps, one hand clutching at her chest the other blindly trying to find some table to put her mug down on. The man Sheik doesn't recognise takes it from her when she tries to balance it half off the table edge. She glides towards them faster than is probably proper but no one looks like they care. She moves past Link and grips both of Sheik's shoulders,

`You're alive?'

`Ah-oh. . .well, I hope so. . . it raises some questions if I'm not.' His mouth pulls into an awkward, sheepish smile and he rests a hand on top of one of hers.

Link chuckles, `we found him raising hell and saving orphans behind enemy lines along with Oxholm company, Roucy and the Gerudo warriors.'

`Saving orphans?' Zelda ratchets her gaze between them as if they made a joke she didn't get.

Sheik flails his free hand around dismissively, `orphan singular, there's only one of her.'

`That's beside the point,' Link rolls an exaggerated shrug, `anyway, Zelda, you should probably know you're an aunt now.'

`I'm sorry wha-'

Link smiles at her plaintiff outburst of confusion before drawing them all back to the actual matters at hand, `How. . .how do things look?'

`Currently passable but possibly set to improve,' Innes-Ker nods at Ambassador Behzadi, `depending on what the Ambassador has to say.'

Behzadi makes a wide, open gesture encompassing the all of the space in the tent, `I think you are unlikely to be disappointed Lord Field Marshal.'

`Excellent,' Decebal's smile is a wide as the man himself, and at odds with the dark, puffy bags resting under his eyes. `Sir Link, Sheik, please join us. Sit everyone, then we can discuss things in earnest.'

They all dutifully amble into the chairs. Decebal sits at the head of the table as monarch of the country they're in with Behzadi at his left, in the place of honour for a guest. The man who caught Zelda's mug takes the chair to Decebal's right. Between that and his looks Sheik's fairly certain he must the Crown Prince. He looks nervous, fingers twining together and apart again too quickly for it to be idle fidgeting. Innes-Ker sits opposite Zelda who has placed herself between the Prince and Link. Sheik takes the only remaining seat, happy enough to cede the status bearing seats to the others. Most of the table is covered with a map, marked and remarked with the front line as it's changed over time. He scans over it looking for Ioana's village, now safely behind the red ink line of the front. They left Viorica there when the scout came cantering into the village to bring Link his summons to the King's outpost and, unless he has orders otherwise, Sheik's going back there as soon as they're done.

`Well, I feel that everything that needs be said about our current state has been, even with Sir Link and his companies' rigorous push forward we're still at a deadlock. Ambassador Behzadi, I think it might be best if we start with the news you bring, if you would be so kind.' Decebal leans back into his chair, making the polite request into more of an order.

`Thank you King Decebal, it would be my pleasure. Even as they try to lay claim to land here in the north the Empire dares to stray close to our borders once more. My Queen has little taste for the Emperor and his greedy fingers. It was his hubris that brought him into the great basin of the world only to be sent running like a whipped dog and it is his hubris that brings him back sniffing around. In fact, even as we speak the Shining Army stirs.'

`But will it move?' Everyone looks to Decebal's right. Judging by his face not even the Prince expected himself to say anything. `Straying near your border is no act of aggression, is Queen Pantae really planning on starting a war?'

Behzadi shrugs, `if it is a war we can win, and history puts the odds in our favour, then yes. The Empire is distracted, most of the legions are here and even if we do not fight directly our navy can easily blockade the Empire's southern ports. Equally, the nations of the steppes are as behoven unto us as they are the Empire, we can pressure them into ceasing trade if we need to.'

`You sound very confident of that.' Zelda smooths a sheet of paper on the table in front of her. `Make no mistake Ambassador, we need you, but,'

`You do not want to be left in the lurch, I quite understand. The steppe nations are small countries with few people, they can be persuaded. We may be large and dangerous but we can be kind as well, the lesser of two evils I suppose. The Empire is teetering, everyone sees it but them, siding with us is the logical choice. Whether or not my Queen choses to go to war we can make life difficult for the Empire, easily, which in turn makes life easier for you.'

`So you stand with us, and I am thankful for that, but what do you want from doing so?'

The Prince's knuckles are white from how tightly he's clasped his hands. Decebal's fingers slide towards his son's but stop short before they're actually able to provide any comfort. Zelda's teeth worry her bottom lip and she flicks her eyes sideways trying to catch the Prince's gaze. Maybe he's braver than Sheik thought he was going to be. Clearly saying something like that has less pushed him out of his comfort zone and more hurled him from it but he still said it. Link makes an appreciative face, courage respecting courage.

` Ah ha, young man, that is, of course, the real matter at hand. Our support is not offered to be one-sided, if we stand beside your nations we expect that in turn you stand beside ours. If the Shining Army marches, then it is the hope of my Queen to see your armies marching as it's mirror. We all know that pressing the Empire into a war on two fronts is the greatest opportunity we can give ourselves.'

The tent slides into silence. What Behzadi and his queen want isn't anything that they couldn't have guessed beforehand and he's not wrong about how to pressurise the Empire either. The only problem is that it means more war. More weeks and months and lives bogged down in mud and blood and death. More scraping together food and supplies especially as winter sets in. Decebal and Sorina have already been forced into imposing rationing on their people while it's a topic debated daily in the Hylian parliament. But, it's the nature of armies to be expensive and hungry and their only hope is that between the three of them they can outlast the exorbitant drains longer than the Empire can.

`I-I fear that you ask more than my people can take Ambassador.' Decebal swallows thickly, his jaw pressed tight, a man between a rock and a hard place.

Sheik glances over to Link. It's true, they've ridden through so many villages and towns holding on by the skin of their teeth. If things keep going the way they are then a quick victory isn't beyond the realms of possibility but they all know it'd only be sticking plaster over a knife wound. To end this properly, to put it to bed for good, would mean prolonging the conflict, and that might just be more than this country can bear.

The atmosphere under the cloth canopy feels grey, Behzadi lays a sympathetic hand on the king's shoulder, `Arrangements can be made, the waterways to the southern Hylian cost are still clear, my Queen is more than willing to send aid to our allies.'

Decebal chuckles emptily, `I am neither proud enough nor fool enough to say no to that.'

Behzadi turns to look at Zelda, `and what of Hyrule Queen Zelda? We have plenty enough to bolster your stores as well.'

She shrugs, `at present we are coping, though I may have to take you up on that offer later.'

`So,' Behzadi clasps his hands, `can I return home with good news? Will you join us in finally ridding the world of this scourge? History is ready to made, in fact our navy is waiting, ready to begin the blockade, all they need is the word. The end can begin as soon as quickly as my messenger bird can fly.'

Zelda and Decebal share a look, in a perfect world they would retire somewhere and talk between themselves about how to answer but empty grain stores, a slowly starving population and soldiers stranded without swords means there's no time for that. They agree, not unconditionally and not without further talks but they agree. After the idea of an alliance is established Decebal stands, excusing himself to go and write a letter to Sorina detailing the goings on in the tent. Behzadi takes his leave for similar reasons whereas Innes-Ker simply says he's an old man and wants to sleep.

The Prince eases himself out of his chair, stretching long legs in the process. He's probably about as tall as Link but somehow broader and sort of cat-ish of the face. He makes towards Sheik, moving like he doesn't quite know what to do with his limbs. He sticks out a hand when he's still slightly too far away which makes his face twist through some interesting gymnastics while he has to leave it hanging there before they can shake.

`I-ah, umm, I don't believe we've had the opportunity to make any introductions.'

Nayru's blessing it's no wonder he looked so pale earlier when he was talking to the Ambassador, he can barely get a sentence out whole. Sheik takes his hand, which is a bit damp, and squeezes firmly.

`No, I don't think we have, I'm Sheik of the Sheikah,'

`Matei, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' They smile at each other and then Matei repeats the entire process with Link, albeit with a more timely extension of his hand this time. Zelda glides in, scaring off an awkward silence that had been trying to muscle its way in.

`Well, that could have been much worse.'

Link frowns at her, `what were you expecting? That he'd have come all this way just to laugh at us or something?'

`Well he might have.' She manages to shrug with her whole body somehow, everything following her shoulders up and off to the left.

Matei sighs, `I sort of wish he had, at least that way I wouldn't have been the least diplomatically capable in the room.'

Zelda pats him on the arm and breaks out her mother hen tone, `you did a wonderful job. You were very to the point; it was quite refreshing.'

`Like lemonade. . .' Matei stares blankly at the tent's entrance.

`What?'

His eyes go wide and then his hands come up to his face covering it so that only a very pink pair of ears are left visible, `that . . . that wasn't meant to be an out loud thing. . .'

`Eh, happens to the best of us, at least no one's asking you to explain the word buggery.' Sheik leans against a tent pole and smiles when Matei's eyes appear again over the top of his fingers.

Link snorts, laughing breathlessly, `when did that happen?'

`When we were making plans to re-acquire Petrescu, I said it and then Ioana wanted to know what it meant so she could translate for the other villagers.'

`What did you say?' the tips of Zelda's lips keep tweaking upwards, royal decorum keeping the giggles at bay for the time being.

`Oh, nothing useful, Roucy saved me.' Sheik rubs his eyes, grinning at the memory, `I'm not sure I ever want to hear the phrase anal coitus again.'

`Well, call a spade a spade I suppose. . . ' Matei's face in entirely uncovered now, he's still red but smiling along with them all nonetheless. `It doesn't sound any better when you translate it either I'm afraid.'

`Do I want to know what else you've been doing while unsupervised?' Zelda slides some sheets of paper out of the way and perches on the table.

Sheik wiggles his eyebrows, `Probably not.'

`Good, tell me anyway.'

* * *

FYI I am about as capable at international diplomacy as a small footstool so my unending apologies if this all just utter rubbish.


	22. Chapter 22

Merry Friday everyone! I hope you've all got nice, good, fun things planned for the weekend (and that maybe reading this chapter is one of them). Nothing in particular to watch out for in this one I don't think but let me know if I'm wrong.  
Cheers, Freckles

* * *

The Ambassador is as good as his word. The blockades begin and the glittering tide of the Shining Army swells and pools along the Empire's southern borders. Not that any of them are there to see it. As far as they're concerned it only happens in dispatches and reports from other people in other places far away from the shortening days and dropping temperatures they're learning to live with. Some better than others. Almost to a man the Hylian army has been bitching about the weather. The only ones putting a brave face on it have been the Gerudo, although that might be because some of them, mainly Kelebek and Jamila, have taken to huddling as close together as possible in an attempt to stay a little warmer.

Not that they don't do the same when they get the chance, which isn't often. They're barely in the same places for more than a day or two at a time. Link, having handed back Roucy company to their bristly knight commander, has been kept on the move between the garrisons and companies rallying and rousing the troops. While Sheik's new found, and finally approaching passable, language skills have had him going from village to village and town to town, often behind the front line, spreading resistance. It's like an inadvertent game of cat and mouse. Every time Link and the army push the front line back and bring another settlement back into the fold of safety he learns he's missed Sheik by meer days. Sometimes it's as little as a few hours. The resistance moving on like ripples in front of the army's tide.

They always come back to the same place though. Ioana, Ciprian and Toma perpetually ready to welcome them. Viorica staring from the upstairs window, waiting for one or other or both of them to ride back into the village. Every time she comes hurtling down the thin stairs to meet them at the door. Link will reach down to scoop her up, throwing her into the air before squishing her with a hug. Sheik, however, usually drops to a knee, bringing himself to her eye line. Arms out ready for the barrelling hug that inevitably knocks them both over. When they can, as often as they can, the three of them spend time together not really doing anything. They'll pass a day caring for the horses or mending clothes almost ruined after months on campaign. Doing quiet, small everyday things piecing together a veneer so that it can feel like everything is normal for a few hours. It's good, it works okay, until it crumbles overnight. Once, at some ungoddessly hour they manage to make themselves laugh over how they seem to be taking turns to be held by the other two until the fear sobs wash away.

The Empire falls back further and further. Frozen ground turns into sucking, soaking hell-mush. The Imperial troops are getting noticeable stretched thin. Behzadi comes again, and Link and Sheik are summoned back to the tent. Good news, says the Ambassador, legions that had been here, in the north, have been spotted lining up and lingering, haggard, on the southern border. The Empire wavers, vacillating between its own borders. They start picking up stray packets of Imperial soldiers, turn coats and deserters. They're kept as prisoners of war, riddled with tuberculosis and trench foot and teetering on the edge of painfully thin. Hyrule and her ally maybe under rationing but at least they're ports are able to accept incoming shipments of aid. At least her army isn't starving.

The Shining Army sets foot over the Empire's southern border at about the same times as the leaves sprout back in, green and new and bright. The great hulking lion that no one wants to cross, the only thing to have ever bitten the Empire and lived to tell the tale finally on the move. They keep pushing from the other side too. Link rides with the first party to inch their way over Decebal's border, finally liberating the occupied country. A bloody path stretching away behind them, marking every contested footstep. There's a hollering, howling cheer. A thunderstorm of celebration, relief, grief, as they make foot fall into true enemy land. He hasn't seen Sheik for a week, and Viorica for far, far longer. He leans his forhead down against Epona's neck, running a hand down to pat her solid shoulder. If there is any balance in this world, the Emperor will feel just as tired as he does.

Two weeks later he's summoned back to the tent. It's still as peculiarly palatial for a tent as it always has been. The poor, small table is even more snowed under with maps and reports and errant, dog-eared bits of half written letters. Matei waves at him as he enters before gracefully organising his gangly limbs to get out of the chair he's in so they can shake hands.

`Link, how, ah, how goes things on the other side?'

`Good Goddesses Matei, don't tell me we've already made a ghost out of him?' Zelda leans around one of the dividing curtains then glide out to join them.

Matei laughs, shoulders arcing up and down in an awkward jerk, while his hand reflexively rubs the back of his neck, `ah, yes, that would be most unfortunate.'

`As far as I can tell,' Link shrugs, `I'm still just about here. So, what's the tent party for this time?'

`Interesting news.'

Behzadi sweeps into the tent, arms wide, all flashing grin and bright colours. Link has to crane his neck to see the Ambassador over his shoulder. Innes-Kerr follows behind him, less smiley and more ruddy brown than jewel-toned assault but still looking pleased. Link frowns at Matei when Decebal doesn't push through the tent flap and join them. The Prince leans closer,

`Father stayed in the capital this time, the survey of all the damage from the . . . well you know. . . has started and he and mother have been buried in reports.'

Link squeezes Matei's shoulder, it's not like he doesn't know how much effort it takes to rebuild a country.

`Well then, I suppose it's not fair to keep him in suspense any longer,' Zelda settles into one of the folding canvas chairs, her travelling dress sighing as it bunches up behind her.

`Mmmm, quite, no point making a meal of it,' Innes-Kerr turns to address Link directly, `The Empire has sent us a request, which I can imagine you think is as odd a thing to do as we did.' Link nods, politely agreeing, it's hardly in character for the Empire to say anything to its enemies, unless it's to assure them of their impending defeat. `As it turns out they're, maybe unsurprisingly, rather keen to end things up here in the north what with the golden lion chewing on their southern border.' The Ambassador chuckles, entertained by the turn of phrase. Ines-Kerr carries on, `they have sent us a proposition. A means to end out little war, as the Emperor dubs it, and for both sides to walk away with dignity whatever the outcome. They have suggested to settle it via a trial of combat between champions.'

`A least ditch attempt for them then?' Link manages to get the words out smoothly even though his heart is clattering around in his chest.

`Yes, although I don't think they want to view it as such, but like it or not they clearly can't maintain a war on two fronts and this is how they've decided to extricate themselves from it.' Zelda holds eye contact with him. He's almost certain she can hear the acrobatics going on behind his ribs and between his lungs.

`It'll hardly make a difference, there's already at least one rebellion starting apparently.' Behzadi hands a bundle of paper to Matei who scans them before passing them to Zelda.

She reads them, raises her eyebrows and draws her lips into a tight line. `Well then, the question is, do we take them up on the offer? Nayru knows Hyrule would benefit from not being at war.'

`What are the terms exactly?' Behzadi taps the table top absently, `What would victory actually give you?'

Innes-Kerr leans against a tent pole, `as I understood it, they propose the war would be over and a non-aggression period would be established and maintained for the next decade. The victor can also requisition a hefty portion of the loser's land and claim reparations for the duration of the non-aggression period.'

`They must have a considerable amount of faith in their champion, otherwise that deal is the work of a mad man.' Link grips the pommel of the Master Sword tighter than strictly necessary. He can feel the ridges pressing into the palm of his hand hard enough to end up leaving a mark.

`As do we.' Zelda stands up, moving over to lay a hand on top of his white-knuckled one.

`Exactly, none of us have any doubt that you can do this,' Matei smiles at him, earnest in everything from his tone to his eyes, `but we have faith in our armies too, we can win without this deal.'

`Don't feel compelled, you've done enough for us already.' Zelda squeezes his hand. Innes-Kerr bobs his head in agreement behind her.

One deep breath, then another, `the men have been through enough, been away from home and families long enough.' Hells he misses the sound of the sea, and the sight and smell of it. He even misses being perpetually slightly sandy. He misses procrastinating over mending sail cloth. He misses feeling a back pressed to his chest as he falls asleep. He wants to cook pancakes for breakfast. He wants to give Epona a rest. `Why prolong our own hardship when the Empire is already unpicking itself? I'll. . . I'll do it. . . tell them I'll do it.'

He's got his own bumper sized tent now. Everything in it is tastefully green so it's a little like living in giant canvas shrub. The Master Sword is lying, carefully polished, on the low bed in the corner. He's trying to ignore the gentle glint of it catching the corner of his eye as he paces back and forth in front of it. Farore's piss he'd hoped he never had to feel like this again. The gnawing, sickening, heavy weight in the pit of his stomach with a hurricane of butterflies above it. His throat is dry and his lips are bitten to angry redness. He hasn't been to sleep for too long, and he's so tired but way too wired to settle down. Sometimes he phases out and all he can see are his legs dangling over a black bottomless pit.

He tries to press his finger nails into his palm to centre himself but he's bitten them all too short for it to work. He bites the skin between his thumb and forefinger instead. He's always wanted to find out how hard he'd have to bite to break the skin but the one remaining sensible part of his brain reminds him that that's a bad idea. He leaves tooth marks though. Faintly bruised and sharply achy. His lungs stutter and judder over breaths. The air is too hot, and too cold and too full of sand and he's here but he's not. He shakes his head, battering the images to death on the inside of his skull.

He scrunches his palms into his eyes and whines, long and frightened, out of his nose. He shoves his fingers up into his hair and tugs before letting his arms go slack and fall to his sides. Cold fingers twine with his own. He takes a deep breath. A solid chest pressed against his back. Another breath, the fidgeting starts to ease up. A lean, muscled arm wraps around his waist. He lets his eyes slip closed. Dry lips press against his neck and jaw before stopping to whisper in his ear.

`It's alright, I've got you, it's alright.'

Link leans back against the body behind him, letting it take his weight. He wonders if water tastes sweeter when you're dying of thirst. `I missed you.'

`Like the moon misses the fucking sun.'

He spins around, bringing his hands up to cup Sheik's face, `you look like you did before. . . only prettier.'

He presses his ruined lips to Sheik's practically desiccated ones. He lets his tongue be guided into a reunion, whining needily into the kiss. Neither of them can stop their hands from sliding over the other's limbs and chest and back. Link tugs at Sheik's shirt until it untucks and he can let his hands roam over skin. He traces the line of his spine and the dips below his collar bones. Calloused fingertips map the almost curve of Sheik's waist and the ridges of bone at his hips. Sheik squirms out of his hold, leaving him standing with arms feeling impossibly empty. Link watches Sheik gently, always gently, pick up the Master Sword and set it down on a chair. His chest heaves when he turns to look back at Link,

`I want you, oh fuck I want you.'

He kisses the bare shoulder in front of him. There's not really enough space for the both of them to spoon in this bed but they've put up with worse. At least it's pleasantly warm and he doesn't feel like the nerves are going to vibrate him apart from the inside anymore. Sheik turns his head, bending his neck awkwardly to look behind him,

`How long have we got?'

`A few more hours. . . probably. . . at least we slept last night.'

There's a great upheaval as Sheik tries to roll over without knocking Link out of the bed. `Well, I mean, we did tire ourselves out quite spectacularly.'

Link snorts, `you're terrible.'

`That's not what you were saying yesterday.' The accompanying eyebrow wiggle is all it takes to make Link laugh.

`I love you.' There's such a fondness in his voice, behind the leftover chuckles, and he loves how naturally it exists there.

The tips of Sheik's ears turn pink, the same colour dusting over his cheeks, he flicks his eyes down and lets one side of his mouth tip up into half-grin. `I love you too.' His eyes drift back up, settling on Link's, the tilted corner of his lips wobbles. The motion ripples across to the other side as his eyebrows draw together. His chest starts to shudder-heave, each breath pulling in in short, sharp little steps. He swallows, then sucks in a mouthful of air,

`Don't die. Please don't die I. . .I-i. . .I know you can't promise but please?'

`Shhh kitten,' Link kisses his forehead, a hand smoothing over his back, `I won't. I won't step foot off this earth without you. Every bit of me that is worth anything is you. You carry all of it so when we go, we go together, and I will promise you that.'


	23. Chapter 23

Well, here goes chapter 23! Watch out for some blood and a modicum of cursing in this one (nothing new in this fic I know but I don't want anyone to be caught unawares). I hope you have an excellent weekend and thanks a whole bunch for stopping by :D  
Cheers, Freckles

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All his certainty is gone now. There is a mountain in front of him. Only yards away and cast out of muscle and metal and bone and blood. The Imperial champion is almost grotesque in physique. He's got at least a foot on Link and is more than broad enough to match. His shoulders and chest look like they've been assembled from lumps of stone and made even more intimidating by being encased in bright, aggressive steel. It hardly seems fair that someone can have biceps that look like Link's thighs. No wonder the Empire felt they could cut the deal they have. Especially when they can introduce him by the moniker `Giant Killer'. It's kind of arrogant in a way, Link's killed some pretty big things too. Hells, he's killed a megalomaniacal, triforce piece wielding, evil death wizard and you don't see him going around using that as a nickname. `Giant Killer', what a bellend.

Little bubbles of hysteria pop and fizz inside him. He isn't sure if that's better or worse than nerves. Better, probably, because the hysteria doesn't keep floating Sheik's pleading, frightened face through his mind every few minutes. The weight of two nations feels feather light compared to holding the weight of just one heart in his hands. He curls it in against his chest, shielding it like a tiny flame in high wind. He's fully aware it's the most precious thing he's ever going to have. That there isn't anything anyone can give him that compares to this. Just like there's strength in knowing Sheik is doing exactly the same with his.

He's here somewhere, Sheik, not watching but somewhere in the camp. Sat, waiting, praying the next time he see's Link he'll be alive, again. As if it hasn't been years since the need for that ended. It's better than him being here though. Watching, feeling the sting and crunch and whiplash ache of every blow and cut along with him. It's bad enough that, as his queen, Zelda is there. Matei sits beside her, hands clenched together in his lap. Innes-Kerr and the Ambassador look equally grim. Slow footsteps, all out of time with each other plod up to him. Léon and Roucy hover at his shoulder.

`I suppose it's daft to ask if you feel ready.' Roucy tugs his moustache, brows jammed tight together.

`I've felt less prepared for things before if that makes you feel any better?'

`Depends on what those things were.' Léon forced smile looks more like a grimace. He leans forward and tugs at one of the straps that fastens Link's cuirass.

`If I'm honest, the first time I had sex.' There isn't any humour in his voice, just drab factual accuracy.

`Well, unless your planning on doing him in with the sheer might of your sexual prowess, then no, it doesn't make me feel any better.' Léon keeps fiddling with his armour like it'll all fall apart without his dedicated scrutiny.

`I don't think we can stall for any longer chaps,' Roucy rests a hand on Léon's shoulder to get him to stop faffing, `apparently, the Emperor's consul, or whatever that chap with the big nose and the bad beard is called, wants to say something before you begin.'

`Oh joy, I do so love listening to crusty queefs.' Léon throws his hands into the air.

Link shrugs, `may as well let him get it over with.'

Roucy nods at Zelda, who nods at someone else who then whispers something to yet another person. The person at the end of the chain frostily addresses an Imperial soldier who starts his own chain of nods and waves and quiet words. What has to be the man Roucy mentioned billows forward, the bottom of his dark blue cloak stirring up puffs of dust. His beard isn't all that bad, a bit scraggly in places but clearly Roucy has more stringent facial hair requirements than most people. He clears his throat at starts his address. It's in Imperial. Léon rolls his eyes hard enough that Link's slightly worried he'll hurt himself.

Beard man engages in some pretty animated gesticulating. Swinging his arms out wide horizontally, spinning to face the cluster of Imperial soldiers and dignitaries. His left hand swoops up and down in time with his speech, as if he's conducting himself, before angling back a bit to waft at Link. The Imperials chuckle lightly, not just out of politeness but not without an undertone of reserve.

`Hmm,' Roucy shifts his weight from foot to foot, impatient, `confident enough to joke, are we?'

`Scared enough to joke to cover up the fact they're not confident enough they'll win.' Léon stares down the back of Beard man's head. `It's just showboating.'

`Are you sure?'

`Roucy, my dear man, my entire life is showboating to cover up the fact I have no idea of or faith in anything I do. I'm very sure.'

Roucy clasps his hands behind his back, `huh, shame.'

`What?' Léon's gaze finally breaks, flicking over to Roucy, `how?'

`You're better than you think you are lad.'

Link and Roucy pretend not to hear the gentle `oh' that slips out of Léon before he can stop it. The speechifying seems to be reaching its end. There are a few more hand waves, a bit more sweeping around and one last joke at their expense, probably. For the first time since he began Beard man turns to face them, the mountain sized Imperial champion a stony-faced edifice behind him.

`I hope your Gods smile on you, Champion of Hyrule.'

`Ooh you bastard' Léon whisper-hisses incredulously, barely loud enough for even Link to hear.

Beard man carries on, unaware of the interruption, `Many great men have fallen to the mighty Janus' sword, I'm sure they will be willing to make an exception and let you join them.'

Link shrugs, `oh, well you know, I did once kill the most evil man this continent has ever seen, I'm sure they'll find room if they have to.'

Roucy chuckles throatily at Beard man's sour face. Evidently the Empire isn't used to having people refusing to take its threats seriously. Not that Janus couldn't fillet Link like a fish is he wanted to, it's just that Link is firmly hoping it isn't going to come to that. Léon squeezes his shoulder, it's time for them to retreat back into the fold of anxious faces behind him. Link exhales, listening to the gentle paff paff of their footsteps walking away. The field is clear, only the champions left in its hastily drawn-up, dusty confines. Janus stares him down, his eyebrows carefully shaped to add weight to his scowl. Whoever did it has done a wonderful job. Maybe Janus does it himself, tiny tweezers held lightly between his giant fingers or with that sticky, hot sugar stuff Zelda uses sometimes. Good for him.

Link presses his eyes shut, blinking away the idle, hysterical thoughts. Duels are worse the real fights. No time to think in a real fight. Can someone please just call for them to start? He shifts from foot to foot, stretching out the fingers on each hand one after the other. Someone yells something in Imperial and Janus reaches for his sword hilt. Link does too, not really in the mood to be caught out. There's a rush of unimpressed muttering from the Hylians that ebbs away as quickly as it flowed in. Evidently the Imperials have no interest on making this easy for him. Whatever, he's not an idiot and he's got eyes so he'll just take his cues from The Incredible Human Iceberg over there.

There's another shout. They draw. Another and then some half-hearted awkward kind of salute occurs. Link's jerky movements always a fraction slower. He and Janus settle into neutral, balanced stances. Link isn't ever sure whether the hum he feels in the fingers from the Master Sword is real or if he's been imagining it all these years. He hopes it is real, that it's the sword letting him know he'll be alright. Oh Goddess he better be fucking well alright. Too many people's hope rides on this for him not to be alright. Sheik used to joke, still does from time to time actually, that he really ought to thank all of Hyrule for leaning on Link because shit son are his shoulders jacked now.

There's one last shout and Janus clearly has no reservations about making use of his language advantage. He's not like Pauw, like a rising tide that comes on fast and inevitable. Janus is measured, but still not exactly slow. Link is under no illusions that he's playing catch up. He just braces for impact, and Din's dirty knickers what an impact. His bones fizz. His teeth clank. His sword arm feels like he once had it in a dream and nothing more. But he took the hit. He took it and the parry didn't crumple like wet paper. He forces his arm to riposte. It hurts. All the muscles scream. Every single damned strip of them.

Janus catches the riposte. The Master Sword juddering and jarring off his spatha, glancing wide. Then, every ounce of breath in Link's body is rattled out of him. A bolder-fist slams into his stomach. White-noise bubbles up from where armoured fists connect with armoured torso and spreads out into the crowd. He claws in breath. Wheezing and spitting. A flick of the wrist and the Master Sword is disentangled from its impromptu date with Janus's spatha. He can't correct for the oblique angle, so he doesn't. He jabs down, forcefully. Janus howls as the Master Sword glides through his leather boot into his foot. He pushes back with the fist still cuddled up to Link's rib and Link explodes backwards.

His feet peddle desperately trying to stop him going arse-over-tit. He manages to tame the perilous wobbles in time to take another shattering lunge. He deflects across his body. Teeth gritting at the metallic scrape squealing next to his ear. He pivots, spinning dancer-quick, getting in close before Janus can pull away. He lets the momentum add weight to his swing. The blade flies perfectly level with the gap between the bottom of Janus's helm and his gorget. His heart is hammering. His heart is soaring. Then it plummets. Clatter-clang and wicked vibrations ringing up his tired-too-soon arm. The back of a gauntlet-ed hand between him and the strip of skin he was aiming for.

He rolls sideways, throwing himself topsy-turvy to avoid sharp steel biting into his body. He doesn't make it. The tail end of the arcing strike grazing his thigh, finding a gap between his metal coating to cut cloth and skin. Hiss. Spit and glare like a wronged cat. He has to get up, treat his legs like springs pushing him forward. A straight attack, circular-sixte to parry then a riposte. His blade catches the curve of Janus's spaulder. The bigger man grins, thick, chapped lips curving gracefully into a perfect taunting smirk. Too bad says the smile that doesn't mean it. We'll fucking see says the almost reflexive tilting up of Link's eyebrows. He rides the line of motion. Pushing with his body to squash Janus's blade arm between them and ram the winged hilt of the Master Sword into his throat.

Gargling chokes hack into the scrap of air between them. Link ratchets his arm back and repeats the movement. Hammering away before the Imperial colossus can catch his breath to stop him. He presses harder, angling forward to try and overcome the height discrepancy. Desperate fingers come struggle up and grip the Master Sword's blade. Link stops pushing, leaning away instead, and whips the Master Sword back towards him, a sizeable portion of the achingly sharp blade sliding and slicing between those fingers before Janus lets go. There's nothing Link can do to stop the mountain man coming for him. He tries a cut to the midsection but it just gets batted away. Janus grips his bodily by the neck, fingers slippy and stained. Link kicks, hobnailed sole clattering harmlessly off an armoured knee.

His toes part way with the floor. Flapping and stretching desperately to be reunited with it. It's his turn to gutter and gasp again. The bloody fingers pressing more and more. The weight of his own body dragging him down, threatening to part way from his neck altogether. Janus shakes him. Harder and harder until Link can't stop his limbs from flailing. He whines, rasping and frustrated, one hand trying to prize the crushing fingers off of him. Black thoughts of blacker water trickle into his head. He wants to scream that you can't drown on dry land but his lungs are tapped. Bubbles blip and pop at the corners of his vision. Not again. Not again, no more.

The pain bright spatha tip hovers into view. Janus's sword arm neatly poised to wreak havoc. Please no more. No more cold eyes and cold water, no more meandering dead things and soul-sucking darkness. No more. No. More. He tightens his fingers. The familiar, maybe not even real, hum buzzes through them. It feels so good it may as well be air. He squeezes just a fraction harder, wills more of that hum to spread into his fingers and palm. To spread up his wrist and forearm, passed his elbow and over his shoulder. He's humming now. All of him connected in a silent, buzzing harmony. The more it spreads the more alive he feels, despite the burning in his chest and the darkness layering over his sight.

Everything that he's got left. Everything he is condenses back down into his sword arm. All the scraped through by the skin of his teeth fights. All of the times he let the music guide him through the forest. All the impossible challenges he's fluked his way through. All the days where he learnt what it was to have friends. All the nights he learnt how it felt to want someone as more than that. The first time that want became perfect reality. The realisation that now, finally, finally, he has the barest, slimmest chance of building himself a family. There is no Goddesses damned way that someone is going to be sent to tell them bad news. He made a promise. He is keeping it.

His sword arm feels like it's made out of Din's fire. The spatha is all he can see. Fantastically bright against the greying out world beyond it. One last chance, do or die, and he's come far too far to die now. It arcs towards him. One last time, he prays to Farore, if he ever meant anything to her, just this one last time. He lets it go, all the pent-up buzzing in his arm. It bends and twists and flows like a tide. The line between flesh and sword lost on him. He's fast as flood water. Appearing out of nowhere to ruinous effect. The crux of the hum thunders neatly into the exposed flexible leather covering the crease of Janus's armpit. It's not enough. Nothing could ever have been enough. Not to stop the metallic lightning strike from finding its mark. The point digs deep, rupturing a heart. The spatha falters. For the first time in what could have been years air trickles down Link's windpipe.

They fall together. Janus buckling under their combined weights. Both swords thump onto the earth. They land messily, a jumble of limbs and pained noises. Link coughs life back into himself. Janus coughs it out. He can just about hear footsteps over the clamouring of his own blood vessels. The humming has stopped. All of him feels heavy. He lets his eyes slide shut. He made a promise. He kept it.


	24. Chapter 24

Lukewarm air dribbles through the open window. He's more than happy to let it drift sluggishly passed him, enjoying it despite the fact it isn't making him any less sticky. It's a small price to pay for being able to leave freezing cold tent life behind him. He rubs a patch of cadmium red smudged on his wrist. Most of it comes of but a persistent couple of flakes stay put. He nestles the brush in his hand down amongst the others scattered over the small table next to his easel. Sheik rolls his wrists, the right-hand one popping the way it always does. He grimaces at it, glad that Zelda is around to joke about how he'll be arthritic before he's forty. At least he's pretty sure he'll live to see forty now, there were a few years where he wasn't so sure.

He stretches out of his chair, twisting like a cat to knock all of the kinks and knots out of his muscles. It feels so Goddess damned good. Not the stretching, although that is a damn fine experience too, but being able to do this. It's the first time he's sat down to paint properly in, what, a year? Year and a half? More probably. When he'd first settled down to it little strands of fear that he'd have forgotten how to had risen up from the back of his mind. They weren't unfounded, he was a little slow, a little awkward and out of practice but it hadn't left him. The shapes still drifted from his fingers onto the stiff paper and the colours layered up to give them depth and weight. So what if it wasn't his best work, it was still a serviceable landscape. All that mattered was that he'd done it, could still do it, that he was more than just a man who killed things and couldn't sleep because of it.

Sheik pulls his torso through one last stretch and walks from the corner he commandeered for his art to the kitchen table. His stock of oil pastels is spread across the top of it. He rolls one that had made a break for the edge of the table back towards the epicentre of the colourful mess. It bounces into a comrade and knocks it into the back of a small, pale hand bracing the edge of a sheet of paper. Viorica looks up at him. She smiles, moving her hands so he can see what she's been up to. Ever since the end of things had come into sight he'd always thought it was too much to hope for. He'd said as much to Link, that even though he wanted desperately to come back home and have to set the table for three, it was too much to ask.

They'd braced themselves to say goodbye in Ioana's kitchen. Hands holding on tight to each other to try and make it easier. Each one reminding themselves it'd be better for Viorica to stay where she was, in her now free native country. As it turned out, she'd had other ideas. She came thumping down the stairs to meet them, a small, hard leather case dragging behind her. Her jaw was set, chin jutting out the way Zelda's does when she's made a decision. She'd told them she wanted to go with them. They tried to talk her out of it, had bitten their tongues to hold in what they really wanted to say. It was Ioana's faith in Viorica's choice, and the way her little's girls voice had broken over the mere mention of her family home that made them give in to what they all wanted.

Sheik side steps around the table so he's not looking at Viorica's drawing upside-down. He grins, it's a spectacularly fluffy looking sheepdog. She's given it lopsided ears and tan and brown patches on a smiley face.

`You like her?' She stares up at his face, looking for confirmation.

`She's lovely,' her ruffles her hair, `what's she called?'

`I called her Button because she has spots,' the deliberateness of Viorica's Hylian gives the statement a weight that makes Sheik laugh.

`Button is a wonderful name, I like it.'

Maybe they should get a dog. With lopsided ears and tan and brown patches. Link has a soft spot for dogs anyway and as much as Sheik is a cat person knowing how happy the other two would be makes it more than worth it. Maybe someone in the village will have a litter of puppies needing homes.

`Is it lunch hour?' She's turned to face the table again now, collecting the oil pastels and putting them back in their box.

Sheik casts a glance out of the window, trying to guess what time it is from the shadows thrown by the fence posts, `looks like it, are you hungry?'

She nods, plaits bouncing along in time and shimmies out of the chair. He hasn't stopped finding it adorable to watch Link and Viorica conspiring amongst the blankets and pillow nested on his and Link's bed every morning about how she'll have her hair for the day. It's lucky that the Gerudo were enthusiastic teachers and Link a quick study because the quantity of hair in need of taming in their household practically just doubled. That being said Sheik usually just resorts to scraping most of his into a scraggy bun and letting his bangs do whatever they want.

Viorica pulls a chair over to the kitchen counter from the table, climbing onto it so she can reach into one of the cupboards. Sheik bends down to the little cold store they have, fishing around for the cheese and slices of ham tucked away inside. Viorica places the bread carefully on the counter before getting down from the chair and putting it back. Sheik cuts thick wedges out of the cottage loaf. The butter slides its way next to his hand. He glances in the direction it came from, eyebrows raised. Viorica is steadily examining the fruit in the fruit bowl, very much not meeting his eye. He sighs, chasing the breath out with a chuckle and spreads butter over the freshly cut bread chunks. He's definitely got a challenger to his title of most fervent dairy product lover in the house. He glues the slices together in pairs, buttered face to buttered face and puts them next to the other bits and pieces they've gathered for lunch.

They try and find a basket to put everything in but when it isn't in either of the first two places they look they give up and just bundle everything into their arms. Between Vioricas only free hand and Sheik's knee they manage to open the door. They're half way across the garden, the warm sandy earth and scrubby, sparse grass wiggling underfoot, when Sheik lets out a strangled, defeated little wheeze,

`Shoes.' He turns to look at Viorica, `shooeeessssssssss. . . we have no shoes on. . .I forgot, I was thinking about cheese, I. . . '

She looks down, spreading her uncovered toes and wiggling them for anyone to see. `Oh,' her shoulders are already starting to shake, `oh. . .oh no.' She presses her bottom lips between her teeth but the giggles still spill through. They walk passed the rickety, salt weathered gate still laughing.

The sand is already verging on slightly too hot so they skip and hop over it, leaving two trails of quite differently sized footprints behind them. At least it isn't too far to Link's boat shed where they're soles can cool down a bit on the sandy floorboards. The doors and windows are all open and they find Link sat towards the back of the shed, in a patch of shade. He's sat on a stack of wooden boards, net twine fastened to a hook on the wall at one end, the other wrapped around the gauge in one hand while the other feeds the shuttle in and out in loops. Sheik smiles, constant anxiety that Link would be out here doing something strenuous even though he isn't healed fully yet once again put at bay. Instead the pile of mended sails in the corner has been steadily growing, along with the number of fishing nets hung along one wall.

'Lunch,' Viorica gently drops everything in her arms as she calls out to Link.

He looks up, hands falling still, and grin spreading over his face. He bounces up from his make-shift seat and sweeps towards them, catching Viorica in his arms and lifting her up. Sheik barely has enough time to put down the bread and cheese he's holding before Link presses him into his arms too. Viorica curls an arm around Sheik's neck as well, pulling him closer in. Link takes full advantage of this and buries his face into the crook of Sheik's neck, pressing his lips gently on to warm skin. Sheik lets his body relax into the wonderful, awkward, warmth. He'll take this over the wailing, hiccoughing, desperate, clutching lump they became after Link. . . after he. . . after Janus.

`Hello favourite people, what's this I hear about lunch?' Link lifts his head back up, beaming.

Viorica throws hers hands in the air, narrowly missing elbowing Link in the temple, `we brought it, some for every each of us.'

`And, that is why you're my favourite people.'

`If that's what makes us your favourites then how must you feel about the palace cooks?' Sheik murmurs and bumps his hip into Link's.

Link moves his mouth to hover over Sheik's ear `True but luckily for you the palace cook doesn't let me touch his-'

`Can we eat now?' Viorica wriggles in Link's arms and the hug breaks apart.

Sheik turns to the unruly pile of food spread over one of Link's work benches, firmly pretending the tips of his ears aren't a little pink. `We've got bread and cheese and ham and' he opens the jar in his hand and sniffs it, `onion chutney and some apples.'

Viorica climbs onto the bench and starts picking out the bits she wants. Link leans over and follows her example of stacking some ham and cheese on top on a hunk of bread. He flicks his eyes up to Sheik as he chews, watching him spoon some chutney out of the jar. It must be nearly empty because Sheik's thin fingers have little chutney smudges on them from how far he's had to reach the teaspoon into the jar. If Viorica wasn't here Link would be very tempted to lick them off. As it is he'll just have to save it for later. She passes him an apple and he can't help from reaching out, fondly patting her on the head as thanks.

He knows part of the reason his chest feels tight might because he's still got bandages wrapped firmly around it but it's hardly the whole story. He made himself a family. The boy that didn't have one. The boy that didn't even have a fairy because he wasn't a real Kokiri. The one that should have died countless times in countless ways but somehow kept hanging on. By the skin of his teeth, by luck and chance and by having a shadowy friend with quick fingers and a clever mind. A shadowy friend that became so very much more than that. So much more that now if you asked him why he had managed to get this far he could give the answer by name.

Now it's those quick fingers that hold him at night when those countless almost deaths catch up to him. That twist into his hair and shiver over his skin when they share their air and space and selves. He loves them for that just as much as he loves seeing them hold the hand of the child they didn't dare to admit they ached to have. Neither of them had ever thought it would be possible for people like them to be blessed this way. At least the Goddesses had more faith than they had. He's not sure he's every going to be able to repay Farore for listening to his last request. For giving it to him, for letting him live to see this. He prays, silently, just with a few words, because at least with the rest of his life ahead of him he has a fighting chance.

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...and there we go, finished. I want to thank you so, so much for sticking with me and for reading and reviewing and generally just being there. I hope it's been a worthwhile read and I hope I've made something you've enjoyed. I don't think this is perfect but I'm still pleased with it anyway. I think I've still got a way to go towards getting good at writing but I'm glad you've come along for the ride because this'd be impossible to do without readers like you. So, for one last time,  
cheers, Freckles


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